


Alone I Break

by mixgoldenphoenix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Discussion of Abortion, Gen, Nephilim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2017-12-31 01:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixgoldenphoenix/pseuds/mixgoldenphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Fall, the Winchesters and their friends find themselves against angels and demons alike. When Kevin comes across a clue to stopping Metatron, and possibly Abaddon as well, Sam and Dean follow the breadcrumbs. But what's at the end of the trail is something that nobody thought was possible: A nephilim. A very unique nephilim that could contain the only way to resurrect a much needed archangel. ...If only he wasn't so damned difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Evolution

**Author's Note:**

> Please pay close attention to the tags.
> 
> I would also like to thank Nadia and CJ for their contribution to my little nephilim. Without them, he probably would have murdered me a long time ago in an effort to escape my brain.

_Then_

The first clue he had that something unbelievably wrong was going to happen that night was a young woman entering the building as he made his rounds. Not a _new_ occurrence, by any means, but one that always caused him to frown. In fact, many young women had walked the same path in the dead of night.

The second clue was the almost terrified look in her eyes and her skittish behavior as she breezed past him on the stairs. She wouldn’t look at him after the first accidental meeting of their eyes. She adjusted her small purse, tucking it tighter into her armpit as if it could somehow save her. He thought he could maybe understand that. All things considered.

The third, and final, clue was the outfit she was wearing. A dress cut off at the knee was an odd choice of attire for February. His gaze followed her before she rounded the bend and continued her journey up. How he wished he could say something, anything, just to keep her from going to that office. But it wasn’t his place. Not his business, even if he _knew_ the business. That didn’t mean it didn’t tear him up inside.

Trying to put the girl out of his mind, he went back to doing his job. He still had to make sure all his equipment was in order before he could return to his apartment. Morning would come early, after all, and with it another boring day. The things he did these days. Unbelievable.

Once finished, he shut his locker, a forced sense of gaiety coming from him as he hummed. His humming stopped at the sound of running feet. A sound quickly followed by a short scream and the dull thumps of a body falling down a flight of stairs. _Shit_.

He ran out of the locker room, the caged door slamming against the wall with a loud clang. At the bottom of the last flight of stairs lay the young woman, her body in disarray with blood pooling under her curly hair.  Upon the sight, he froze. He had two options: Leave it alone or take action. The first option was a philosophy he’d been using for the past few years and it had worked well for him. But, the second option… The second option was who he _was_ , deep down in his core. A core he wished he could forget.

He jogged over to the girl and gingerly pulled her off the floor. He sat her up against the wall and placed his hand against the gash in the back of her skull. With a thought, the broken skin and bone knitted together perfectly. With yet another thought, the bright red splotches disappeared from the floor and her canary-yellow dress. Then, he sat back, waiting for the sudden intake of breath he knew was coming.

The young woman jerked awake, eyes and head moving around frantically. Obviously, she was wondering what had just happened. Why she wasn’t dead or something. When her eyes finally lighted on him, he tried to smile.

“You okay?” He asked with a nod.

He wasn’t expecting the answer to be tears and a broken sob. She tried to hide her face in her hands as she explained:

“No! Nothing’s ever going to be okay again! My life is over and it’s all because of that arrogant, conceited _dick!_ ”

He desperately wanted to inform her that, technically, her life had been over a few seconds ago and he had remedied that. Or that she had made a pun without knowing it. But, that might not go over too well.

“What?” He asked, trying to lighten the mood. “Date didn’t go so well?”

A scoff was his answer, accompanied by a red-rimmed glare and a look that clearly meant, ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Right. Foot meet mouth.

“What do _you_ know?” She snapped. Her venom was weakened by her sniffles and failing attempts to clean her face with the heels of her palms.

He shrugged and motioned to his uniform, “I am the _janitor_. I know _everything_.”

“Yeah, right, well,” she mumbled. “Maybe you can tell me how many other women he’s knocked up! God, I’m such an idiot.”

“What?” He asked, genuinely stunned.

The gears clicked into place. Her flighty nature from before and the fear in her eyes. She had told the professor. Worn a pretty dress to perhaps entice him and make him more willing to listen to her. That took a lot of courage, he had to admit. But whatever respect he had for the young woman in front of him was greatly quashed by the burning rage building up against the other man. He knew what the girl was going to say next.

“Yeah,” she breathed, playing with her dress. “Said he didn’t have any condoms on him, but the deal was a onetime only thing. I figured, what would it hurt? I’m on the pill! But, nooo. Apparently, I’m the lucky one-in-a-hundred that gets knocked up anyway! Now what am I going to do, y’know? I can’t afford college _and_ a baby. And that _asshat_ refuses to have anything to do with it. ‘You should’ve thought of that beforehand. You should’ve taken the morning-after pill.’ You should have done _this_ ; you should have done _that._ Like it’s all my fucking fault and he’s not the one screwing his students for grades!”

He’d had enough. Standing up from his crouched position, he turned to storm up the stairs to the professor’s office. Confront the man himself. Not how he usually did things, but he was too pissed to care. He didn’t make it up a step, however, before his wrist was grabbed. Shocked, he snapped his head around to look back at the woman.

“What are you doing?” She asked from her seat on the floor.

He took a deep breath before replying, “He almost killed you. You know that, right? It’s a _miracle_ you’re alive right now, after a fall like that. He used you, tossed you aside, and upset you. _Insulted_ you. And I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

The young woman was surprised, her tears almost stopped. But, she didn’t let go of him. In fact, she tugged him back in resignation.

“No, leave it,” she said. “You won’t change his mind if I couldn’t. And I don’t want _you_ getting in trouble for expressing _my_ anger on his face.”

He hadn’t planned on targeting the man’s face, but…he got the point. With much reluctance and a sigh, he slid down the wall to sit beside her.

“Y’know,” he began softly, “there _is_ another way for…” He nodded towards her stomach.

“Yeah, I know. I thought about abortion. But…I can’t do it. No matter how many times I tell myself I’m not _really_ killing anybody… I don’t know. I know I’ll still feel guilty. I mean, I _can_ raise a child. My parents would help, thank God.” She shrugged and looked at the wall across from them, “I guess I just thought things would go differently. I had plans. Guess I should learn that, sometimes, plans fall apart.”

Well, seeing the girl’s choice, he slowly reached his hand out towards her stomach.

“Does your stomach hurt anywhere?” He asked, more to alert her of what he was doing than anything.

Though, he _was_ checking on the health of the fetus. Humans were tricky things and he’d only been focused on _her_ when he’d healed her before. All she would feel from his scan would be a slightly warmer than usual palm.

He had expected the _mother-to-be_ to react, not the child. However, surprise-surprise, the developing soul latched onto _him_. To his horror, he actually squawked in panic before jerking his hand away. If the tiny bugger was willing to bite, it was fine.

“Haha, sorry!” He tried waving away his reaction as a social slip up, while he literally waved his hand around because that had stung. “My bad! I just—”

The young woman laughed, however. She seemed as startled as he did, but she wasn’t upset.

“No, no. I get it. You _did_ see my tumble, after all. Plus, I needed the laugh. Your reaction was _priceless_.” Her smile dimmed a little. “You know, it’s funny. I don’t feel hurt at all.”

“Good!”

“I’m Bethany, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand to shake.

He smiled back and shook, “Gabe.”

“Well, Gabe. Mr. Janitor, sir. I would continue to sit on the floor with you and keep chatting but, I’ve got my future to plan and you probably need to clean up.”

Bethany picked up her small purse from where it’d lain forgotten on the floor and tucked it under her arm. Gabriel said his good-byes as he watched her leave Crawford Hall and step into the frigid night air.

And if, a few days later, one Arthur Cox—also known as Mr. Morality—took a header from his window, cracking his skull wide open on some concrete steps, because he was trying to escape the ghost of a young woman with curly hair and cute dress as she asked, “What? Don't you like me anymore? Don't you want me?” Well… Gabriel was just cleaning up.

_Now_

Kevin really hated his life. He hated it the same way a student hates school. What with all the reading, the work, and the bogus material that pounded a mind into mush. As an Advanced Placement student, he’d prided himself in avoiding that frustration. Sure, his work had been hard, but nothing he couldn’t handle. It occupied his mind and life but it didn’t consume him. It didn’t beat him. Pouring over the Word of God for days on end looking for _one_ subject out of _God_ knows how many? Yeah, Kevin begrudgingly had to admit he was getting his ass kicked.

His headache was back, but that was no surprise. Looking at a Tablet was like looking at a 3D model of a computer’s files being projected by a Virtual Boy. Ancient writing was overlapped by ancient writing; and, the longer and harder Kevin looked, more writing seemed to appear from a lower layer. It was a genius move by Metatron to write the Word in such a way. The archangel could fit literally everything on one piece of rock. But, for Kevin’s untrained mind, it was horrible. Maybe if the leviathan hadn’t killed the angels who’d been sent to help him so long ago he’d be able to read the Tablets with no problem at all. But, no use in crying about spilt milk now. At least, that’s what Dean would tell him. Get over it. Move on. Nothing you can do now. Hakuna Matata. …Kevin liked Sam more.

It was Dean who had commanded him to look up how to reverse Metatron’s spell. It was Dean who had commanded him to look up how to defeat a Knight of Hell. So, he did. Because there was no arguing with Dean. Not if you didn’t want an angry angel in your face telling you your only purpose was to be a Prophet until you died, or to hear some speech about being family, yada yada. Kevin didn’t like those speeches. He didn’t like being reminded of his mother or how his life was in the shitter. It was better to throw himself into translating and give the Winchesters what they wanted. Plus, hey! He was helping save the world, right? At least that’s something.

So far, his search had been fruitless. He’d found out a lot of information about the inner workings of angels, jotted a few things down. But, as that wasn’t what Sam and Dean needed, he kind of pushed most of what he was seeing into the back of his mind and forgot about it. As well as someone like him _could_ forget, anyhow.

When he moved his eyes over a new section he triggered something. An inkling in the back of his mind. That little voice that says, ‘Whoa, wait a minute. That was probably important.’ Skimming back up the Tablet, Kevin recognized the subject to be about archangels. Words jumped out at him about their strength, their uniqueness. In fact, they seemed overpowered. But, Kevin mused, as they were the first angels, maybe God figured, “Go big or go home.” Kevin further mused that God had realized perhaps he’d gone _too big_ , and, therefore, the rest of the Host had been created to be considerably weaker. After all, why create a creature that could only be killed by its own blade?

Wait a minute.

Kevin leapt up from his chair, accidentally knocking it to the floor with the backs of his legs. That’s it! So, he hadn’t found how to reverse Metatron’s spell, yet, but at least they now knew how to kill him! With a giant grin on his face and Tablet in hand, Kevin burst out of his room towards the vestibule. He clomped to a stop in the library when he saw Dean sitting on a table talking to Castiel. The eldest Winchester looked over at him with a confused frown on his face. Castiel didn’t seem to notice him.

“Dean!” Kevin breathed in excitement. “I think I found something!”

Dean forced a smile, “That’s great Kev, but I’m kinda in the middle of something. So, it’s gonna have to wait.”

Kevin looked between Dean and a seemingly shell-shocked Castiel before he shook his head and stomped forward.

“No. No, it’s not going to wait!” He yelled angrily. “I’ve been holed up, in my room, the entire time you’ve been gone. And do you know what I’ve been doing, Dean? Looking up stuff you told me to look up. And now that I’ve found something, you’re going to hear it!”

“Kevin—” The older man tried to warn.

“ _Now,_ Dean!”

The Winchester’s jaw clenched in restrained anger before he sighed in defeat. He threw his hands up in the air. Castiel seemed to be having a forlorn staring contest with his half-eaten burrito.

“Fine,” Dean grouched. “Lay it on me.”

Kevin nodded, “Right, so, I was looking for how to reverse Metatron’s spell. I didn’t find anything about that. Yet. If it’s even on the Tablet.” Catching Dean’s glare, he hurried to the point. “Right, anyway. I did find out that the only way to kill an archangel is with an Archangel Blade.”

Dean stared at him like he was the dumbest thing in all of Creation.

“That’s—that’s important, right? I mean, it has to be. You can _kill_ Metatron with an Archangel Blade.”

The other man sighed, “Look, Kevin. I’m glad that you’re helping us out. I’m glad you told me what you found. Thing is? We already knew about the Archangel Blade thing.”

“Wait, what? How?”

“When we were fighting against the Apocalypse,” Castiel explained, placing his burrito down on the table, “Gabriel, I was informed, attempted to slay Lucifer with his. …He wasn’t successful.”

“Wasn’t successful?”

“As in he died,” Dean said.

“Oh,” Kevin mouthed. It was hard trying to fathom that the Messenger of God was dead. “Well, what about the other archangels? Um, Michael? Raphael?”

“Dead,” Dean announced. “Not that they would’ve helped, anyway. Colossal dicks with wings.”

“Michael is still alive,” Castiel corrected.

“Well, what—?”

“He’s in Hell, with Lucifer,” Castiel answered.

Kevin nodded his head slowly as Sam finally walked into the library. “So, let me get this straight. You guys have been the reason for, like, all of the archangels’ demise. And you probably didn’t nab any of their Blades during the process. Which means that we stand absolutely no chance against Metatron should he decide to strike against us first? …Why am I not surprised?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked angrily.

“That we tend to screw everything up?” Sam replied.

Dean jumped, apparently not having heard his brother walk in. He eyed him suspiciously. Which was odd enough behavior, Kevin thought. But, compared with Castiel’s dejected look and refusal to look at Dean, or anyone not a cooling piece of Mexican food, it was giving Kevin warning signs. What in the world had happened when they’d gone to fetch the fallen angel?

Sam ignored his brother’s angry pout and addressed Kevin.

“Did the Tablet mention anything about the archangels fighting the Knights of Hell?” He asked. “That old Man of Letters I got the Bunker’s key from? Larry Ganem, I think his name was? He said they’d thought all of the Knights had been wiped out by ‘em.”

Kevin frowned. “Not that I found, but I didn’t delve that far into the section. But, I wouldn’t doubt it if they’d been tasked with something like that. I mean, assuming Knights are as powerful as they sound. The way Metatron describes archangels they were kinda like God’s Special Forces.”

“That’s not a bad comparison,” Castiel spoke. “The archangels were the strongest angels of the Host and had very few weaknesses. Naturally, they were tasked with very special missions that were either too delicate or too intense for an ordinary angel to handle.”

“Well, that’s all nice and stuff, but, the _archangels are gone_ , ‘cept for the one we’re not going to be fooling around with because he’s as big of a dick as his brothers were. So, what’s the point of this whole conversation?” Dean asked as he motioned to everyone with his hand.

Sam ignored him. “Kevin, what did Crowley say to you when you…talked to him before?”

“You mean before he taunted me about my mother and suggested things were done to her that I _still_ can’t think about?” He grouched.

“Uh,” Sam stuttered. “Yes.”

Kevin shrugged. “Nothing much. Some bullshit about us being friends and that, if I let him go, he’d kill Abaddon himself.”

Sam was silent for a moment, his eyes darting around the floor as he thought.

“We should ask Crowley again.”

“What?” Dean asked. “Why? He’s not going to tell us anything more than he already has. Just the names of two no-name demons he doesn’t give a shit about.”

“He gave us those names as thanks for Kevin beating the shit out of him,” Sam explained. “He was damn near _human_ in that church, and I know the effects of the Trial are still bothering him. Our plan to have him stew in his own juices _did_ work, Dean. He used Kevin as a way to distract himself. How long’s he been cooped up in our dungeon with no outside contact? Two weeks? He’s itching for _anything_ to happen. If anyone knows about the Knights of Hell and how the archangels beat them it’s him, and now’s a good time to pry it out of him.”

Dean smiled sardonically, “Actually, now’s a _bad_ time. I was trying to talk to Cas about something.”

“What could be more important than killing a Knight of Hell?” Kevin snapped.

“He said I can’t stay here,” Castiel answered quietly.

Three heads snapped to look at the fallen angel before two snapped to look at Dean. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be angry or shamed. He was obviously not happy at having been ratted out. Kevin didn’t have time to ask Dean just what the hell he thought he was doing, kicking out the guy they’d just chased for days, because Sam beat him to the punch.

“What the hell, Dean?!”

“Look, it’s complicated, okay!”

Castiel looked like he wanted to run away and hide under a rock.

“No, not okay!” Sam shouted. “Maybe you forgot the part where Cas fucking _died_ and how there are now _reapers_ after him, too? And you just wanna throw him back out there?!”

“No!” Dean hissed. “It’s. Complicated. Look, Cas,” Dean turned to face the angel, “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t. But, something’s come up and—”

Castiel finally stood up from his chair. He still refused to meet Dean’s gaze, though. Kevin knew something was wrong with the fallen angel. Dean’s dismissal was hurting him more than Dean probably realized. Or cared about. Something’s come up? What could possibly be more important than his friend’s life? Not much, Kevin mused. He narrowed his eyes at Dean. He didn’t like this. Whatever _this_ was.

“No. It’s—it’s fine,” Castiel said. “I’ll…find another shelter nearby and—”

“Cas,” Sam growled.

Castiel flinched a little at Sam’s tone. When he finally looked at the taller man, he froze in much the same way Kevin had. Nobody could ever convince Kevin that Sam Winchester couldn’t be vicious when he wanted to be. Sure, he seemed all overgrown puppy most of the time, but when he stood with his back straight and his shoulders pulled back he meant business.

“Sit,” Sam commanded, pointing forcefully at Castiel’s chair. He then turned his fury towards his brother, “And _you_. You’re coming with me and we’re going to talk to Crowley and I’m going to refrain from beating some sense into you.”

Dean sputtered as Sam stormed away, heading towards the dungeon. Castiel slowly dropped back into his seat, obviously confused and conflicted by the whole mess. Dean took one look at him before he pushed himself off the table.

“Dammit, Sammy!” he cried out, following after his brother.

Kevin couldn’t make out Sam’s reply, but whatever it was, he sounded livid. Kevin took one look at the dejected face of Castiel and sighed. He walked around the table and sat down beside him. Placing the Tablet in front of him, Kevin awkwardly began to try and comfort the fallen angel.

“Your…burrito’s getting cold,” he said.

Yes, Kevin _was_ Advanced Placement. Castiel looked at him and then at his probably-frigid, forgotten food. He fiddled with zipper on his hoodie. It was strange to see him not wearing that oversized trench coat Kevin was so used to. However, the change in wardrobe really hit home that this _angel_ wasn’t an angel anymore.

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “I. I don’t seem to be hungry anymore. I mean, I _am_ hungry. I recognize the hunger pains, but—”

“You don’t want to eat anything,” Kevin finished.

“Right.”

“That happens sometimes when your nerves are up. Like if you’re anxious or upset.”

Castiel frowned, “The human body is much more complicated and annoying than I thought it was.”

Kevin laughed, “Yeah. I’ve been human all my life and my body still does things that confuse me. Like how sometimes it refuses to go to the bathroom.”

Castiel’s frown deepened, “You should have that checked out. I don’t think that’s healthy.”

“Uh. Uh, yeah. Um, Dean… You know what? Never mind that. I just wanted to say that, if you need anybody to talk to, about anything, that I’m willing to listen. I know it helps to get things off your chest.”

Castiel was silent for a short moment. Then his frown became one of determination and Kevin was pretty sure he’d bitten off more than he could chew.

 

* * *

Dean’s mind was running a million miles a minute as he took after Sam. To say he was fucked was an understatement. A gross understatement. Zeke had given him an ultimatum: Cas goes or he goes. And, if Zeke left, Sam would most likely die. He couldn’t have that.

Dean didn’t want Cas to leave, though. Not after he’d just gotten him back. And he certainly didn’t want to kick the poor angel back out there, with Bartholomew and God knew who else gunning for his ass. But Cas, at least, could stand a chance against them. He had angel warding tattooed on his skin. He had his Angel Blade. He had all the information on how to avoid and get rid of the persistent bastards. Cas could hunker down somewhere, make a little a fort, just long enough for Zeke to heal Sam completely. Then, Cas could come back and Dean could forget all about the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

Or, that had been the plan until Kevin had shown up and ruined everything. Now, Sam was furious with him for trying to kick out their best bud for, in that gigantor mind of his, no damn good reason. If Dean tried to force Cas out now, Sam would probably beat his ass to kingdom come _and_ want an explanation for why he insisted on being such a major dick. What was Dean supposed to say? ‘It wasn’t my fault, Sammy! The angel riding your bones that you don’t know about held you hostage and made me do it!’? Yeah, _that’d_ fly over real well.

“Sam, wait!” Dean shouted at his brother’s back.

“What, Dean?” Sam asked sternly as he kept walking.

“Look, can we not do this now?”

“Do what, Dean?” Sam inquired, turning to finally face him as they reached the storage room door. “Drill Crowley about a breakthrough regarding the whole Abaddon thing or express my intense dislike for your idiotic decisions?”

Dean frowned and chose to ignore that attack.

“ _Crowley._ You’re pissed and Crowley’s going to pick up on that, and he’s going to use it against you.”

“That’s cute, Dean,” Sam replied. “But I know how to interrogate people calmly while containing my rage.”

Dean rolled his eyes as his brother stepped into the storage room.

“Whatever you say, Banner,” he quipped as he followed. “Also, stop saying my name at the end of every sentence. It’s a tell.”

Sam ignored him. They walked the short distance to the hidden wall, passed shelves of boxes containing folders and various artifacts. Dean would always wonder why the Men of Letters chose such a location to stick their demonic dungeon. But, well, he had to hand it to them. It was the last place _he’d_ look.

Sam didn’t even pause as he reached the doors. He pulled them open fluidly and strolled in without waiting for Dean. Sam wasn’t just angry, Dean realized. He was on a mission. Dean suspected Sam was throwing himself into the job just to avoid him and, also, to piss him off.

Crowley was sitting peacefully in his chair when they entered. The chains containing him rattled as he looked up to smile at them.

“Moose,” the demon purred at Sam. He then looked at Dean, “Squirrel. So, what brings you two to my humble abode? I have to admit, I’d’ve preferred little Kevin to come visit me, but, well. I guess you two will have to do. Tell me. What can I do for you?”

“Abaddon,” Sam replied, jumping straight to the point.

“Ah,” Crowley breathed. “Yes. This does seem familiar. Next, I taunt you, you beat my face in, and I give you some bogus information as payment for your services. I do love this game.”

“What killed the other Knights of Hell?” Dean asked. “Was it the archangels?”

The King of Hell looked at him, his tongue playing with the inside of his cheek as he studied Dean. That pause was enough to give Crowley away. They were close to the mark on that one. Dean knew, now, the demon was wondering how many cards he wanted to play. Crowley shifted as he tried to get comfortable.

“Well, this is new,” he said. “The Winchesters have actually done their homework for a change. Refreshing.”

“So, they did?” Dean asked.

Crowley stared at him, “And you’re back to being dumb. I just _said that_.”

“How did they do it? When?” Sam questioned.

“Now, why would I tell you everything? You’ll never learn if I give you _all_ the answers.” Crowley shrugged, “Unless, of course, you pay me. Shower me with gifts. A regular teacher’s pet. I might bend my moral standards, then.”

“What moral standards?” Dean grumbled. They were getting nowhere.

“Ha. Ha.”

“Look, Crowley,” Sam started as he crouched down in front of the demon. Crowley frowned at him in obvious suspicion, but Sam trucked on. “I’m going to jump straight to the point because, frankly, I’m done. I am so very done. And you can give me what I want to know, or you can rot in here for all eternity. We have the Angel Tablet, we have the Demon Tablet, and we _don’t_ _need you_. Dean was the one who thought you giving us demon names was a good idea, not me. As you know, I wanted to blow your brains out the moment you turned human. I would have stabbed you in the head had Dean not pulled me from the church.

“So, all I want to know is if _you know_ how the archangels killed the Knights of Hell. Was it with an Archangel Blade? Did they smite them? Was it a spell? We need to know how powerful an opponent Abaddon really is before we chase after her, guns blazing. And, before you think of giving us false information to get us killed, just remember that Abaddon dead benefits you and us dead means you’re trapped here. Forever.”

“Wow, Sam. Laying it on a bit thick, are we?” He looked at Dean, “Though, I have to admit he’s better at proving his argument. Must be all those years at Stanford. Proof that a higher education gets you somewhere.”

Never before had he wanted to strangle Crowley more than right then. Or maybe he had and the urge just felt stronger now. Like all the moments of homicidal rage compacted over time. Dean vowed to get his obligatory punch in before they left.

“Crowley,” Sam warned as he stood.

“You want a weapon, yes?” The King of Hell asked. “You may say you want information, but what you’re _really_ after is another special gun, another magical bone of a dead saint, to make your battles against Abaddon easier. Well, you’re in luck. Just so happens I have a special something tucked away. I was saving it for a rainy day, but…things came up, as you can see.”

“And…” Dean drawled, “you’re just going to give it to us? This special something? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Oh, no,” Crowley replied. “You see, my special something has an expiration date, and I’m afraid my lackeys—loyal or not—will forget to take care of it. With me gone, who’s left to instruct them with its care? And, if I know Knights, Abaddon’s going to sway a lot of demons to her side. The last thing I want is her bloody hands all over _my_ things. As Moose said, it serves me to serve you in this endeavor.”

Sam nodded as he towered over the demon. “Where’s it at?”

“More importantly, what is it?” Dean asked.

The demon looked between the two of them. “Where it’s at is the usual abandoned warehouse. What it is is a surprise. Like I said, I’m not giving you _all_ the answers. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Abandoned warehouse is very specific, Crowley,” Sam snarked.

“As soon as you bring me a table, some paper, and a writing utensil, I’ll give you the coordinates.” Crowley smiled, “I don’t trust your memory enough to simply tell you them. And, who knows, maybe I’ll include some more demon names? You never know.”

The bitchface his brother made was priceless, but with a sharp, “Fine,” he turned and stormed out of the dungeon to go find Crowley a table. Dean walked to stand in front of the King of Hell. With a smile and lightning fast movement, he decked him in the nose. The dull ache in his knuckles was worth it.

“Really?!” Crowley shouted, trying to blink his eyes straight.

Dean smiled, “For ol’ time’s sake.”

 

* * *

Sam peered through his binoculars at the demons that were guarding the warehouse. Well, Crowley hadn’t lied to them on that part. Something of value had to be in there. The trick was, was it as useful as he tried to sell it as? Probably not. After all: Crowley. But, something was better than nothing.

They’d left Kevin and Cas back at the Bunker to research further into the whole archangels vs. Knights thing. Sam was still angry with Dean for what he had tried to pull. His brother’d tried and tried again to explain that he only wanted to protect the Bunker _._ That Bartholomew’s reapers had found Cas once before and there was no guarantee they wouldn’t do it again. Then what? They could give the angel their location and all that supernatural knowledge the Men of Letters tried so hard to keep safe and hidden would be exposed, probably destroyed.

Sam knew that was a load of bullshit. Dean wouldn’t risk family for anything. Hell, he had let every demon walk when he forced Sam to stop the third Trial. Risked countless people’s lives just to pull his brother back from the brink. No, Dean wouldn’t throw Cas to the wolves just to protect some musty books and fancy weapons. Something big was up with him, and Sam was going to get to the bottom of it. It was only a matter of time. For now, though, he had to focus on the task at hand.

“How many?” Dean asked from the driver’s seat.

“Four,” Sam replied. “On the outside, anyway. Who knows how many are inside?”

“You take the knife, I take the Angel Blade?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

They clambered out of the Impala and retrieved their respective weapons from the trunk. Sam made sure to grab a flask of holy water, just in case. He placed the water in the back of his jeans while Dean, as quietly as he could, shut the trunk.

Sneaking around the side of the building was easy enough. For whatever reason, the demonic patrol had decided that actual patrolling wasn’t necessary. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact the warehouse was located in Middle-of-Nowhere, Ohio. Coming to the corner of the wall, Dean crouched down. He picked up a small rock at his foot and looked back at Sam. Sam nodded in understanding and got ready, in case more than one demon decided to come running.

Dean threw the rock around the corner and quickly backpedalled, holding his sword at the ready. It only took a few seconds for a lone demon to come into view. Dean didn’t give it much time to react. He leapt forward, the demon’s eyes widening as it tried to scream, and thrust his Blade up and between its ribs.

Sam didn’t wait to see the glowing light he knew would flicker in the demon’s eyes. He rushed around the side of the building, spotted the nearest demon running towards him, and attacked. Dodging an enraged punch, Sam slammed the Demon Knife into the creature’s spine and held his position until he was sure it was dead. The body fell to the ground with a dull thud as Sam moved on to the next demon.

He’d almost waited too long, barely catching the demon’s arm as it aimed for his side with a wicked looking knife. Sam tried to bring his own blade down on the demon’s head but quickly felt his own arm caught. The two struggled with one another as Dean ran off after the fourth demon.

Sam grunted as the demon tightened its grip on his forearm and sneered at him. This was going nowhere. Steadying himself on his right leg, he kicked out with his left. His foot collided with the demon’s knee with a satisfying crunch. The creature cried out as it doubled over, allowing Sam to free his arm and bring the Knife down into its neck.

Both of his demons taken care of, Sam ran for the open door of the warehouse. He knew Dean had followed his own demon in there. He could only hope the idiot hadn’t run into a trap.

The first thing he saw upon crossing the threshold was Dean picking himself off a very dead demon that was lying face down on the floor, the Angel Blade buried in the center of its back. The second thing Sam saw caused him to simultaneously drop his knife and his jaw.

Suspended in the center of the open warehouse and trapped within a ring of holy fire was an angel. With wings. Golden wings that reflected the fire beneath them. Sam would have found the sight beautiful if it weren’t for the complete horror of the situation. The angel’s arms were shackled to a chain that connected to a simple, homemade fly system on the ceiling that held him a good two feet off the ground. His wings were pierced through with meat hooks at the top joints which kept them raised and spread out. His threadbare pants hardly held onto his hips. He was entirely too thin. And he was young. Couldn’t be more than sixteen or seventeen.

“Oh, my god,” Sam breathed.

“What?” He faintly heard Dean ask. “Wha—Holy shit!”

Sam’s body reacted before his mind could. He rushed passed Dean, violently ripping off his own jacket as he went. If he’d been thinking, he may have realized using fabric to beat out an oil fire was a dumb idea. But, the only thing running through his mind was the young angel’s fate. How the poor thing had obviously been tortured and strung up and probably left to die. How he had to let the angel down and help.

The holy fire was resistant, but he was making progress. Soon, Dean joined him, using his own jacket as a weapon against the flame. It took a minute or two, but they eventually extinguished it. Sam cautiously touched the young angel’s leg. It was still warm under the materiel. His chest was still moving.

“He’s still alive,” Sam said. He looked up, “We have to get him down.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” Dean snapped, angrily tossing his now ruined jacket on the floor. “How do you suggest we do that? Grab a ladder and…what?”

“He’s suspended using that bar,” he pointed at it, “and it’s attached to a fly system. Just follow the rope to the weight and let the bar down. _Slowly._ ”

Dean nodded grimly and followed the two ropes all the way to the back of the building. Sam watched as he fiddled with the ends. They’d been tied off in some intricate knot that probably had no rhyme or reason.

“Sam,” he said loudly. “I have one option and one option only. I’m going to have to cut him down.”

“You can’t do that!” Sam shrieked, subconsciously grabbing onto the angel’s legs in case he fell. “You’ll…rip his wings off or something! Bang us in the head with the metal bar.”

He heard Dean’s sigh clear across the room. “Relax, Sammy. I know to _hold on_. Just grab onto him and I’ll try not to be dragged too much. Or, y’know, get yanked to the ceiling.”

Not really approving of Dean’s plan but knowing it was the only way they were going to the angel down, Sam gently wrapped his arms around the kid’s legs. The bar jerked and dipped on one side after Dean sawed through the left rope with his knife. Sam started to shout at him to scold him, but the bar quickly evened out with another jerk. Then the angel was coming down, slowly, as Dean had promised.

It took an agonizing minute for Sam to get him laid out on the floor, the bar far enough from him so as not to crush his wings or force them closed. Dean walked back over to him as he was inspecting the shackles and hooks.

“Those take a key?” He asked. When Sam nodded, he said, “Be right back. One of these bastards has to have it.”

The meat hooks, Sam quickly discovered, were the biggest problem they faced. The demons had made sure they pierced right through the center of the joint. No matter what Sam and Dean did, they were going to wind up injuring the kid to free him. When Dean returned with the key, they released his arms and gently placed them by his side.

“One of us is gonna have to hold his wing while the other rips the hook out,” Dean said.

“Hate to bring it up, Dean, but…you probably know more about these things than I do.”

“Your hands are steadier.”

“Fuck. Okay.”

Dean lifted up the angel’s right wing gently, but firmly. Taking a steadying breath, Sam grasped the hook. He fought against the strong desire to rip the thing out as fast as possible. This wasn’t a Band-Aid he was ripping away. Precision was key.

The sound and feel of metal scraping against bone and cartilage caused Sam’s nose to furl up. Blood started to pour from the wound, marring shimmering feathers, as he forced it open again. Eventually, Sam pulled the hook free. He sat it aside, tried his best to ignore the flesh hung on it, and moved onto the next wing. Soon, he pulled the second hook free.

“Dean,” he said shakily. “He’s not going to fit in the Impala. Not with these wings. And we can’t risk bending them too much.”

“I know.”

“We can’t leave him here.”

“ _I know._ ” Dean stood up, “There’re vans in the side lot I remember seeing. Wait here, I’ll see if I can get one to start. He’ll fit in one o’ those.”

Sam watched his brother leave and then turned his attention back to the young angel laid out beside him. Special something, Crowley had called him. In danger of expiring. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if they hadn’t shown up when they did. Didn’t want to think about it, but he did. Just like he didn’t want to think about archangels or this kid’s long, golden, wavy hair. But he did.


	2. Shoots and Ladders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I request you heed tag warnings.
> 
> Chapter title based on the song by Korn.

_Then_

He didn’t like it here. The people had ugly faces over their normal ones and they smelt funny. They reminded him of smoke. And they were mean. They would call him names, say things he didn’t understand, pull at his wings. One had even tried to kick him once. It’d found itself halfway across the room on its back a second later. He hadn’t known he could do that. Throw them around if he thought hard enough. Whatever-they-are never tried to hit him again after that. They were afraid of him as much as he was afraid of them.

He fiddled with the chain connecting the metal bracelets around his wrists to the floor. They’d ‘leashed’ him, they’d said. Wouldn’t allow him to leave the small area the chain allowed. Like a good little pet. He didn’t think he was a pet, and they were terrible owners anyway. They wouldn’t feed him as often as they should or give him water. When he complained, they would sneer and say he didn’t need it. But he did need it, didn’t he? He was a growing boy and he needed to eat. That’s what his momma always said.

He missed his momma. They had taken him from her. She was screaming and crying the last time he saw her. Thinking about that always made him sad, though, so he tried not to. Whatever-they-are didn’t like it when he cried. It made them meaner. He hated them. He wasn’t supposed to hate, but he hated them.

A visitor was coming to see him today, he’d been told. He was to be on his best behavior, or else. The ‘or else’ part, he thought, wouldn’t be something he’d like very much. Because they wanted it to happen. Anything they wanted couldn’t be good. _They_ weren’t good.

He knew the stranger had arrived when he saw the whatever-they-ares stand up straight. He’d seen that in a movie once. Soldiers stood at attention when their boss came around. So, he was meeting their boss? He felt his feathers rise on his wings. They always did that when he was anxious.

The man that entered the building sure carried himself like a boss. He had short, blond hair, blue eyes, and was dressed in simple clothes. But those weren’t the things that he focused on the most. It was the shining halo around the man’s head—just as he had seen angels have in the books his momma would look at—and the tattered pairs of glowing wings on the man’s back that drew his attention. He gasped at the sight.

The man frowned at him as soon as he spotted him. When the angel walked towards him, because he _had_ to be an angel, he spread his many wings wide. _They_ must have sensed him do it because all of them shifted uncomfortably. The angel didn’t care, though, and neither did he. Even with the bright light pouring off of them, he could tell what color the feathers were. They were silvers and pinks and blues and greens, all at once. Like the insides of pretty seashells and clams. Even with so many feathers missing and bone sticking out in places, the wings were still beautiful. Desperate to please the angel, he stood quickly and raised his own wings. He wanted to know if his were considered as pretty as the other’s.

The angel’s frown deepened, but then he smiled pleasantly as he came to stand in front of him.

“And who do we have here?” The angel asked as he looked down at him.

“Lemuel,” he replied, smiling back.

“Hmph. ‘Devoted to God.’ How fitting.”

“What’s your name?” Lemuel asked as he reached out to touch the angel’s bottom wing. He jumped when he felt a cold hand grab his arm just below the metal bracelet.

“Never,” he commanded, “touch an angel’s wings without permission.”

Lemuel’s vision became blurry as he fought back tears. He wouldn’t cry in front the angel, no matter how scary he was, though. When his wrist was released, he dropped his arms.

“And lower your wings. To raise your wings is a symbol of strength. Do you think you’re stronger than me?” The angel asked curiously.

Lemuel shook his head vigorously and pulled his wings in tightly against his back. He wasn’t trying to start anything. The angel smiled again and knelt in front of him. With his wings still raised, though, he didn’t appear any smaller.

“Good boy,” he said.

Lemuel chewed on his bottom lip. He nodded towards the angel’s pearly wings, “Does that hurt?”

“Don’t worry about them,” he said. “You see, Mary had a little lamb. And he’s going to make everything better.”

Lemuel nodded, though he didn’t really understand what the angel meant. Whatever he was talking about seemed like a good thing. At least, his voice made it sound that way.

“My name is Lucifer. Do you know who that is?”

“No.”

Lucifer’s eyebrows rose, “Really?”

“Am I supposed to know?” Lemuel asked, brow knitting in confusion.

The angel laughed. It was a good laugh, a happy one. But there was a hint of another laugh behind it. One that sounded like music. It almost made him dizzy trying to hear both at once.

“I should say so,” Lucifer replied.

The angel reached his hand out and brushed it against Lemuel’s cheek before raking it through his hair. Despite how cold Lucifer’s hands were, Lemuel leaned into the touch. It felt like it’d been so long since anyone had shown him any form of kindness or love. He missed being held. He missed goodnight and good morning kisses.

“Tell me, Lemuel: Do you know who your father is?”

He blinked his eyes open and looked back at Lucifer, “I don’t have a father.”

The angel smiled with only one side of his lips, “Everyone has a father, little one.”

That’s not what his momma said, but… “Are you my father?”

“Heh,” Lucifer laughed as he stood, pulling his hand away. “No. I’m more of…an uncle.”

Lemuel grinned up at the angel. He knew what uncles were. He’d seen them on TV. They were family members who would take you out and do fun stuff, or give you gifts, or tell you stories.

“How old are you?” Lucifer questioned.

“Two-and-a-half,” he said proudly, his wings puffing behind him. “I’m a big boy!”

“Really? I should say so; you look all of five-years-old.”

Lemuel beamed. He liked that he looked older. He also learned faster than other kids his age. It felt nice being better than them. Not that he’d say that out loud. Last time he did, he got scolded. It wasn’t nice to call people dumb.

But, wait, if Lucifer was a family member, then…

“Am I an angel?” He asked. “Momma always called me that, but I didn’t believe her because angels come from Heaven and I didn’t come from Heaven.”

His uncle smiled, “No. You’re a nephilim. Well, a mutated one, really, but still a nephilim. You have an angel’s influence in you, though. That’s why you have wings.”

“Oh,” Lemuel said. Looking around at all the whatever-they-ares, he whispered, “Can I come to Heaven with you?”

Lucifer’s face and wings twitched as his smile dropped, “What’s the matter? You don’t like it here?”

“They’re _mean_!”

“Well, that’s because they’re demons.”

He gasped and stepped away from Lucifer, the chain connected to his wrists rattling loudly in the near silence of the room. Lemuel knew what demons were. He’d heard about them. If you knew about angels you had to know about demons. Their faces made sense now. The twisted, smoky face was the demon. The normal face was the person they were possessing. Because that’s what demons did; they possessed people and made them do bad things.

Lemuel lunged forward and grabbed onto Lucifer’s shirt, “You can’t leave me here!”

His uncle frowned, “Now, Lemuel. They won’t hurt you.”

“He tried to kick me!” He shouted, pointing at the demon.

Lucifer’s frown grew angry. Lemuel watched in awe as the light behind the angel grew brighter. A small ribbon of light came out of his back. It twisted up through the air like a snake behind Lucifer’s shoulder. Then, lightning fast, the ribbon headed for the demon.

“Why you little—!” Was all it got out before the ribbon stabbed it in the head.

For a split second, its eyes shown bright. The demon fell to the ground slower than it took for the ribbon to go back inside Lucifer. The demon didn’t have any blood on its forehead, which seemed odd to Lemuel, but its evil face had disappeared. The other demons all shifted, like they wanted to run away, but they didn’t. Lemuel looked back up at Lucifer.

“There,” his uncle said sweetly, “now he won’t bother you anymore. And neither will the others.”

“How do you know?” He asked grumpily.

“Because they do what I tell them to do.”

He shook his head angrily, “No! Demons are _bad_ guys and angels are _good_ guys! The bad guys _never_ listen to the good guys! They always go behind their back and do something horrible, and then the good guy has to clean up the mess! If you leave me here—”

Lucifer grabbed his hands and pried them off his shirt, “This isn’t your Saturday morning cartoons, Lemuel. This is real life. The demons _will_ obey me because I’m stronger than them. I will kill them if they are disloyal. To go against my orders, to hurt you, means that they will _die_. Do you understand, Lemuel?”

He nodded reluctantly but mumbled, “They’ll still be mean.”

His uncle leaned towards him to ask, “Do you remember Mary’s little lamb? Good. Well, his name is Sam, and he’s going to help me fight the real bad guys. And when we’re through with them, we’ll come back and get you. Then you’ll never have to worry about the demons again. I expect to you behave yourself while I’m gone. Am I clear?”

Lemuel nodded again.

“Good boy,” Lucifer said, ruffling his hair almost too hard.

The angel walked away from him and to the nearest demon. Lemuel knew that demon was the boss of the others because it was always telling them what to do. But, his uncle was the boss, too. Lemuel frowned as he tried to figure out how there could be two bosses at once.

“Put up wards to block out the angels,” he heard Lucifer say. “The last thing I want is someone discovering our little pet and taking him from me. And, if I hear another demon laid one finger on him, I will murder all of you in ways you can’t even imagine.”

Lemuel sat down, his chain jingling, and smiled at the demon his uncle was talking to. The creature looked like it wanted to pee its pants. It was funny. That’s what it got for being so mean to him. Lemuel was glad he had an uncle like Lucifer. Lucifer was willing to kill for him. That meant he must love him, because his momma did and she always said she’d kill anybody if they tried to hurt him.

Lucifer looked at him over his shoulder and told the demon, “Give the dog a bone, while you’re at it. He’s looking a bit thin. I can’t do much with a twig.”

He watched his uncle walk away, headed for the door. Lemuel didn’t want to stay with the demons, but he wasn’t as afraid of them anymore. He knew someone would protect him. And, after Lucifer had fought the bad guys, he would leave with him and never have to look at another demon again.

After the angel had left and the demons settled down, Lemuel began to sing.

“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb whose fleece was white as snow.”

_Now_

The first thing he noticed was the ever present pain in his wings and shoulders, though it did seem duller. The second thing he noticed was his stomach desperately trying to eat itself. He hadn’t been given food in weeks. Not that he needed it all that much, but since they’d placed him inside that ring of “holy” fire, his human-based needs seemed more pronounced. Not that the demons had cared.

The third thing he noticed was his position. Gravity wasn’t pulling him down anymore. Something hard was pressed against his side. His wings weren’t being stretched out, painfully held in place. His arms were in front of him, not forced over his head. No weight was on his wrists and no heat was licking his legs. Whatever he was lying down on was moving.

When Lemuel opened his eyes, he was surprised to see the white, metal interior of a vehicle. But it was a dull sort of surprise—the kind that’s felt when nothing matters. He looked down at himself. Sure enough, his wrists were free of the cuffs that had been on his wrists since he was a child. Looking over his shoulder, he saw wings free of hooks. They were healing, he could see, but they still ached deeply. Fresh blood had oozed over his golden feathers, coloring them copper. He tried to reach over his shoulder to touch them but pain shot through him, radiating from the top joint down to the tips and it pierced into his back. The whimper he made came before he could think to stop it.

“Oh, hey, you awake back there?”

Lemuel froze at the sound of another’s voice. Even if there _was_ concern and sympathy in that voice, it still put him on edge. Of course someone was with him. Cars didn’t drive themselves. He was an idiot for ever thinking he was alone. He was an idiot for letting his guard down. What feathers could rose up on his wings. As slowly as possible, he pushed himself up, simultaneously pushing away from the passenger’s seat that his head had lain behind.

The sight that greeted him caused him to go into a full-blown panic. The kind, hazel eyes glancing worriedly at him meant nothing to him. Not compared to the skeletal wings fading in and out of existence, like a mirage, on the man’s back. He’d seen wings like that once before.

Lemuel cried out, flailing arms and wings painfully, this way and that, as he tried to back away from the angel. Adrenaline numbed the pain and spiked his fear, causing him to forget his injuries. All he cared about was getting away. He turned towards the back of the van and clawed for the handle. When he found none, Lemuel cried out again.

“Hey, hey!” The driver shouted at him. “Calm down! I’m not—!”

With a guttural roar, Lemuel slammed himself into the doors. They didn’t budge, so he backed up and did it again, trying to use his wings as propulsion. This time, the door dented a bit. He ignored the angel shouting at him. He threw himself against the door again and, when it refused to open, he threw himself against the sides of the van. That yielded more favorable results. The van rocked and swerved. Lemuel tried again. He _would_ get out, even if he had to wreck the vehicle.

“Okay, okay, no,” the driver said.

The van started to slow down. Lemuel guessed the angel was pulling over to stop. He growled lowly, gave the wall one more half-hearted slam, and then crawled to the back corner. He was trapped. No way would the angel open the back doors to subdue him, he’d come from the front and box him in. Lemuel wondered briefly if he could charge the bigger male. Probably not. His panic was quickly morphing into rage.

When the van had come to a complete stop, the angel unbuckled his seatbelt, slowly pulled himself out of his chair, and eased his way into the back. He was holding his hands up in surrender, his eyes pleading.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Liar,” Lemuel seethed, bawling his hands into fists.

“No. I’m not,” he replied. Putting his hand to his chest he said, “My name is Sam.”

 _Sam._ His blood boiled at the name. Of course. Why _wouldn’t_ they send Sam? With an enraged cry, Lemuel grabbed the nearest object lying by him and threw it at the angel. Said object just happened to be an empty bottle of oil which was easily smacked away before it could hit Sam in the face. That didn’t stop Lemuel, though. He grabbed at anything not bolted down and threw it at the stunned angel as he screamed and prayed his hands would find a wrench.

“Liar! You’re a liar! You’re no better than him! You’re just like Lucifer!”

Sam, who had dodged all of his attacks, gasped at the accusations. He gave Lemuel a look of pure confusion and _hurt_. Not that he cared what the angel felt, but that was not the reaction he was expecting.

Suddenly, Sam’s eyes glowed with a blue light. His face became blank, his back straightened, the wings on his back solidified—as much as light could—and a dim halo formed around his head. Lemuel didn’t know what was happening. And then Sam was charging him.

Lemuel squawked and tried to get away but, before he could, a large hand wrapped around the back of his neck and squeezed. He felt the angel’s power enter his body, felt as it caused his whole body to go numb and limp. Lemuel snarled at the passive face staring into his.

“I am not Lucifer,” the angel said. He sounded different from before.

Lemuel smirked up at him, “Oh, I know. Lucifer’s wings were prettier.”

“My name is Ezekiel. The man I am possessing is named Sam Winchester. He is truthful when he says he means you no harm. But if you persist to fight him and harm _him_ I will harm _you_.”

Lemuel’s brow twitched as he frowned in confusion, “Possess?”

The angel, _Ezekiel,_ frowned in turn, “You know of Lucifer. I assumed you would know angels take Vessels.”

“Take?”

The gears turned in his mind. A vessel was something that held something else, like a cup or a boat. Possession was what demons did to gain a person’s body and use that body against the person’s will. If possession was being used with taking a ‘Vessel,’ then…

Lemuel’s eyes widened, his desire to flee rising higher. But his arms and legs refused to move, no matter how hard he tried to fight the tingling sensation of the angel’s power. His wings only twitched minutely when he tried to use them. He may not be in chains, but he was still bound. So, Lemuel laughed. What else could he do?

“It all makes sense now,” he mused. When faced with Ezekiel’s confusion, he explained, “Why the demons listened to Lucifer. It wasn’t because he was stronger. It was because he was one of them. He took a man’s body and forced him to do things he didn’t want to do. All you _angels_ do. You all probably think that your light and your pretty wings make you better than them. When, really…you’re just a glorified demon.”

Ezekiel looked away from him. He stared at the van wall for a long second before looking back at Lemuel.

“Perhaps,” he replied. “I will not lie and say that Lucifer or some of my brothers and sisters did not do horrible things while in a Vessel. But, whereas demons take Vessels forcibly and without permission, angels require permission to inhabit a Vessel. The human must say yes.”

“Do you tell them what you plan to do with their bodies?” Lemuel asked cheekily. When Ezekiel narrowed his eyes in response, Lemuel said, “That’s what I thought. Point remains.”

The angel sighed, “You are obviously not going to agree with me. However, I will tell you that I am within Sam to heal him. His survival depends on me…and that he never knows that I am within him. Before you speak—” he continued quickly to head off Lemuel’s interruption, “—it was his brother’s decision to erase Sam’s memories of me. If Sam finds out I am here, he can eject me and, when he does, he will die. Know that if you reveal me you will kill him.”

Lemuel frowned, “Why should I care? I don’t know him.”

“I do not know. Perhaps you should ask yourself, seeing as how you already do care, or you would not hate me so much for taking advantage of him.”

He glared at Ezekiel. He was right, and Lemuel hated that. He didn’t know Sam, but he knew of him. He’d thought he was one of Lucifer’s lackeys for years; one that, like his boss, had forgotten him. Left him to the demons. But now…

Lemuel knew what it was like to have your freedom taken from you. He’d seen what could happen to Vessels. Lemuel wanted nothing more than to rip Ezekiel from Sam’s body. To force him to pay for tricking the man. There had to be some reason—a bad reason—that the angel was hiding within him. Why else would he be so secretive when he had been given permission? But, despite his desire to punish Ezekiel, he couldn’t hurt Sam. Not if he didn’t want the guilt of murdering an innocent man, anyway.

He snarled, his wings twitching once again as he tried to move. Ezekiel studied the movement for a moment before focusing back on Lemuel’s face.

“I am going to release you,” he began, “and, when I do, I suggest that you do not move against me. I will allow Sam to take control and he will remember none of this. You will do nothing that will make him suspicious of how he perceives things. Am I clear?”

“’Am I clear?’” Lemuel mocked. God, how he hated that phrase. “Perfectly.”

Ezekiel nodded once. The angel’s power withdrew from his limbs, moving from his feet and hands, up his body, to gather at the back of his neck. It faded completely when Ezekiel removed his hand and moved away. Lemuel repositioned himself as the angel stood. Ezekiel went back to where Sam had been. After a stern look, those hazel eyes flashed with light and Sam reappeared.

It was unsettling watching the shift, watching the remorse flood into the man’s whole body. Sam looked like he felt trapped, his mouth working on words that wouldn’t come. Lemuel suddenly felt like crap. He’d called the man horrible names when Sam could very well have been in the same boat as Lemuel once. And, now, Sam was just as trapped as he was, even if he didn’t know it.

“Look,” Sam said shakily, “I don’t know what Lucifer or—or Crowley did to you. I can imagine. God, can I imagine. But, I’m _not_ like them. Me and my brother just want to take you with us. We’ve got a place, underground. A shelter. It’s got food, showers, beds, anything you need. We don’t want to hurt you, we want to _help_ you.”

“ _Why?_ ”

Sam, surprisingly, didn’t look confused by his question. “Because you need it. I’m not going to lie and say we knew you were in that warehouse and we came to save you because we didn’t. We thought there was a weapon in there that could help us defeat demons. But, we found you instead, and you needed help, so we helped.”

Lemuel smiled, but it was broken, “You don’t get it. _I’m_ the weapon.”

“No,” Sam replied. “You’re a person.”

He flinched at the surety in Sam’s voice. They hurt. Words calling him anything other than a freak or a toy _hurt._ Because he knew better. He knew better but he still hoped to be all Sam thought he was.

Lemuel jumped at the sound of music suddenly filling the van. Sam stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a phone. Looking at the screen, he swore and then answered it.

“Hey, Dean. Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just…he woke up and kinda freaked out. …Well, if you woke up in a strange place, you’d freak out, too. Hold on, Dean. ” Sam motioned towards him with his hand, “Just try and stay still. Please. You’ll hurt yourself more if you move around too much.”

With that, the man slowly turned and sat back in the driver’s seat. As he continued his conversation with whoever Dean was, probably his brother, Lemuel slunk back to the floor and curled up. His muscles ached again, his wings, the bruises forming from when he’d slammed into the doors and walls. He was still hungry. But now he was miserable for a whole different reason. Fisting his hands into his hair, he wished, not for the first time, that everything would just go away.

* * *

Castiel frowned down in determination at the egg he was frying. He had yet to master the art of flipping them without bursting the yellow yolks. It seemed like the factors to successfully cooking a fried egg were always changing. The amount of heat, oil, depth of the skillet, type of spatula—metal or plastic, force used when turning over the delicate food, all of these things contributed to how good one did when cooking eggs. Much to Castiel’s dismay, and despite all the years he’d observed humanity perform this tiny feat, he just could not do it himself.

Yet, he was stubborn, if he was nothing else, and Dean had asked him to prepare something to eat for the angel they had recovered from Crowley’s old warehouse. So, come Hell or high water, Castiel _was_ going to fry an egg. (He wasn’t entirely sure on where that idiom had come from or what had inspired it—the Biblical Flood, most likely—but he’d heard one of the old, homeless men he’d encountered on his travels say it often. He liked it.)

The angel’s need to eat had thrown him at first, but Dean had clarified that they were dealing with a special case. He wouldn’t reveal much after that. Just, ‘You have to see him, Cas. I don’t know what to make of it.’ Castiel figured that, perhaps, his brother had been injured in The Fall. Castiel remembered when _his_ Grace had suffered damage, by his own hand, and he’d woken up sore with a bug bite that refused to stop itching. It wasn’t _unheard of_ for an angel to require sustenance when extremely weak.

Pulling his thoughts away from his earlier conversation, he took a deep breath and carefully wiggled the plastic spatula under the frying egg. He wound up chasing it around the skillet for a second or two as it slid around on the oil. But, once he had it cornered up against the side, Castiel managed to flip it. The yolk remained intact. The grin that spread across his face was probably the biggest one to ever grace his lips.

“Hey, Cas,” Kevin’s voice came from the side, “I— Wow. Someone’s happy.”

Castiel’s grin smoothed into a small smile. “Yes. I have successfully flipped an egg without damaging the yolk.”

“Oh,” the young man replied. “Congrats. …You do know you could’ve cooked something else if the eggs were giving you so much trouble? Since you’ve wasted, like, three.”

Castiel frowned as he looked over at Kevin. The prophet was peering into the trash can.

“Isn’t it customary in American culture to serve eggs for breakfast?”

“Well, yeah. But so is serving cereal,” Kevin said as he walked over to him.

Castiel’s frown became one of annoyance.

“Uh. But, I’m sure eggs and—and bacon and toast will be more filling for a hungry angel than plain ol’ cereal.”

He sighed, scooping up the egg and placing it gently on the plate he’d prepared. He then picked up a few pieces of bacon and placed them within the skillet. The popping oil caused him to startle. Castiel had already encountered hot oil once; he did not wish to do so again.

“Humans are confusing,” he complained. “I always try and fit in, adjust to your customs so that I don’t stick out as much. But I have so many customs running through my head, stuff I remember from millennia ago, and I don’t know what’s… _in style_ anymore. I don’t know if I’m going to say or do something considered strange. I find it surprisingly unnerving that _I’m_ unnerved about making a faux pas.”

“Ah,” the prophet nodded in understanding. “Embarrassment. Wait until you experience secondhand embarrassment. ‘s when someone _else_ messes up but _you_ wanna crawl in a hole and die.”

Castiel tilted his head in confusion. Why would anyone think up that phrase to explain such an emotion? It was horribly morbid. Poking idly at the cooking bacon, he tried to clarify what he meant.

“It’s not the feeling of embarrassment I’m afraid of. When I was an angel, I didn’t have to worry about seeming otherworldly. I _was_ otherworldly. I didn’t care if someone saw me fly away or heal. I didn’t care if I told someone I was an angel. I— They couldn’t do anything to me. But now…with all of Heaven after me… I can’t afford to come across as _strange_.

“I didn’t think anything of it at first, watching what I said to humans. I mean, I told a complete stranger I would gladly accept his ride because I couldn’t fly anymore.”

He looked pointedly at Kevin. He wasn’t surprised by the look of incredulity that was focused on him. In fact, that’s what he was aiming for. For someone else to understand how ignorant, how naïve, he had been, and be just as confused by his behavior as he was.

“Yeah, that’s not smart, dude,” the prophet replied.

“No. It isn’t. And that wasn’t the last time I asked stupid questions,” Castiel continued as he flipped the bacon. “And then _April_ happened, and…”

Kevin frowned at him. Castiel had told him about the incident with the reaper. The prophet had surprised him with his reaction. Whereas he, Dean, and Sam had laughed the situation off, Kevin had become angry. Castiel had been confused, at first, but then Kevin explained how he’d been used. Of course, Castiel knew this. The reaper had explained that their coupling had been a form of entertainment for her before she killed him. But, after Kevin helped him see just how horrible April’s actions had been, and the more Castiel had thought about it the next day, the angrier _he_ became—at himself and the dead reaper.

“I should have known better.”

The prophet sighed, “It wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” Castiel agreed. “I’m slowly starting to understand that. But I still feel horrible.”

Kevin shrugged, “Understandable. Very _human_ of you.”

Castiel chuckled humorlessly as he moved the bacon from the skillet onto the plate. He was still uneasy with his humanity. Sometimes he would be excited by the idea. He could try so many different foods and appreciate them, he could try so many different frivolous activities and not worry about anything other than having fun, and he could, finally, just do nothing at all. Other times, he would curse his mortality. His bodily needs were monotonous and demanding, he couldn’t fight like he used to, and, more often than not, he felt useless.

“Anyway,” the prophet began, “I was wondering what to expect with this angel Sam and Dean are bringing in.”

“Other than he is injured and requires food and refuge, Dean didn’t inform me of much. He did say I would have to look at the angel; that he couldn’t explain the situation,” he replied as he removed the skillet from the stove’s eye.

Kevin frowned, “You all have dealt with plenty of angels before, right? What could throw them like that?”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I don’t know, honestly. It’s just… _Crowley_ told them to go pick up the guy. Crowley. He doesn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart. He doesn’t _have_ a heart!”

“You think we should be cautious? That this angel could be a spy?”

Kevin shrugged, “Wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe we should put up wards or something?”

Castiel frowned, “No. If the angel is as injured as Dean says he is wards could make his condition worse. But, it wouldn’t hurt to be ready. I still have my angel blade, should it come to that.”

The young man nodded, but he didn’t seem reassured. Castiel’s phone rang. Dean had given it to him just before they’d left a day and a half ago. Flipping the device open, he greeted the hunter. The conversation was very brief. Dean had only called to inform them they had arrived and were on their way in. He wanted Castiel to meet him in the library and to, ‘please, bring the food.’

“Dean and Sam have returned,” he announced, pocketing his phone.

“Yay,” Kevin cheered sarcastically.

The prophet pushed himself away from the counter he’d been leaning against and made for the door. Castiel grabbed the plate of food and went to follow him. His nervousness at meeting a brother almost made him forget a fork. Spinning around, he placed the plate back down. Luckily, he already knew where the silverware was kept. Grabbing a fork, he shoved the drawer back in with his hip, grabbed the plate once more, and stepped into the hallway.

When he reached the library, the sight that awaited him almost caused him to drop the food. Dean and Sam were, thankfully, uninjured. But the creature suspended between them was certainly not. The requirement for sustenance was glaringly apparent, as the young male’s ribs were too pronounced to be healthy. However, it was the wings that caught most of Castiel’s attention. Not because they were dragging uselessly behind the male but because he could see them at all. That wasn’t possible. No angel’s wings could form on the physical plane. At least, not made of flesh and bone.

“What,” Kevin squeaked from where he stood near a bookshelf, “is that?”

“He’s an angel,” Dean groused, trying to maneuver the creature into a chair. “What else does he look like? Food, Cas.”

Castiel eyed the male warily but complied. He set the plate in front of him and then quickly backpedalled. The creature didn’t seem interested, at first, but he must have realized how much he needed food. The speed with which he tried to devour what was on the plate betrayed his previous displeasure.

“Uh, you might wanna slow down. You’ll make yourself sick if you eat that fast,” Sam cautioned.

The young male glared at the tallest Winchester with an intensity that stunned Castiel. Yet, he complied, almost mocking Sam with the slow movements he now used to rip a piece of bacon in two.

“So, what? Fallen angels have wings now?” Kevin asked.

“He is no angel,” Castiel replied carefully.

Dean tensed at his words, “What do you mean? He has wings. He was in a ring of holy fire when we found him. Angel warding was all over the walls. How is he not an angel?”

“He’s a nephilim, isn’t he?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Castiel frowned at the young male and he, in return, narrowed his eyes at Castiel. Sam’s gaze quickly bounced between the both of them, obviously just as confused as he was as to why he and the ‘nephilim’ had differing answers.

“Wait, what’s a nephilim?” Dean asked, holding up his hands.

“It’s a child between an angel and a human,” Sam replied.

Dean was only more confused. “I thought angels were junkless?”

Sam stared blankly at his brother, pointed at Castiel, and retorted, “He has a penis, Dean.”

The eldest Winchester spluttered, obviously uncomfortable with Sam’s crass approach to the subject of his anatomy. Castiel wasn’t completely comfortable with it either. He could feel himself blushing. It seemed becoming a sexual creature made one awkward about such topics. He used to not care what genitals his Vessel had. Dean flailed wildly.

“Dude, no! Just…no. Okay? I got it. So, angels can inhabit someone’s body and make babies.” Dean turned to face him, “He looks like the very definition of an angel baby. How is he not one?”

“Because I’ve seen a nephilim before, Dean,” Castiel replied. “They don’t have wings. On any plane of existence.”

The ‘nephilim’ hummed in amusement, “So that’s why I’m a freak.”

“What?”

“Lucifer and the demons,” the young male explained as he cut into his egg, “called me things like ‘mutant’ and ‘freak’. I’d always assumed it was because I wasn’t human or angel. No. Seems like I’m just not a normal nephilim. A freak of a freak.”

“Lucifer? He visited you?” Castiel asked.

“Once upon a time.”

“Why? What is it, Cas?” Sam questioned.

“Lucifer wouldn’t waste his time on something he didn’t find interesting. He also wouldn’t lie. If he called this young man a nephilim, then he’s a nephilim. What is your name?”

“Lemuel,” the nephilim replied around a mouthful of food.

“Hello, Lemuel. My name is Castiel. The silent, young man in the corner is Kevin Tran. He’s a Prophet of the Lord. I’m sure you already know Dean and Sam.”

Lemuel’s gaze passed, uninterested, over Kevin as Kevin waved. But when it settled back on him, the nephilim tilted his head. A small smile graced his lips. Castiel frowned. He didn’t understand why the youth would look at him like that.

“So, um, Lemuel,” Sam began. “Do you happen to know who your father was?”

The smile quickly dropped and those amber eyes became guarded. Lemuel pushed the empty plate away with from him.

“I’m tired. You said there were beds here. I wanna go to sleep.”

“Now—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel stressed. He knew the nephilim was upset and he didn’t want the hunter making it worse. “Kevin, can you show Lemuel a spare room and make sure he has everything he needs?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure. I guess.”

The nephilim stood from his chair. Sam and Dean watched him closely, probably to make sure he was strong enough to walk. The food seemed to have helped him replenish some of his energy. Or perhaps it was his will that kept him on his feet. Kevin awkwardly escorted Lemuel away, golden wings dusting the floor behind him. When the two were gone, both Winchesters turned on him.

“What the hell, Cas?” Dean questioned.

“You upset him. He’s a valuable person to have as an ally. Letting him calm down before asking anymore questions would benefit us more than hounding him, which risks him refusing to help.”

Dean sighed and scrubbed at his face. He turned his attention to Sam.

“And how did you make the nephilim connection?”

Sam shrugged, “He reminded me of Gabriel.”

“Seriously? He looks nothing like the guy. His hair’s way too blond and—”

“Sam is correct, Dean,” Castiel interrupted. “I’ve only seen those wings on one other angel. I’m not sure how, but Lemuel carries the archangel’s Grace inside of him.”


	3. Breaking Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait on this chapter. I was 1/3rd of the way through when my keyboard took a shit. Found a wireless keyboard, got 2/3rds of the way through and then my motherboard took a shit. So, I had to write the whole thing over again. :D But, HERE YA GO!
> 
> Chapter title comes from "Breaking Inside" by Shinedown. Listen for the pun~

_Then_

The last thing Gabriel felt when he died was the intense pain of his Grace igniting as it reacted violently with the metal of his own Blade. And then nothing. No Heaven; no Hell; no Purgatory. Certainly no special dimension located at the second star to the right. Because for an archangel like Gabriel there was no afterlife. Not really. Perhaps other angels got a special niche in Heaven to kick back in, but he was not one of them. It can be argued that the reason Gabriel didn't get such fancy treatment was because, face it, he'd been a bit of an asshole. Definitely not the most angel-y angel in the Garrison. Certainly not the Archangel of the Month. Or year. Or past few millenia. But his delinquent behavior, astoundingly, was not what caused him to not rest in peace. It _may_ have been the reason he was resting in pieces, however.

When his Grace reached its critical limit, it expanded and exploded outward like a dying star. And like the new-formed elements resulting from a supernova, the little pieces of Gabriel rained down, unnoticed, on Earth. No life-giving tree sprouted up overnight; no well that was once dry suddenly began to runeth over. Gabriel's death was remarkably unimpressive as far as Reality was concerned. A fancy light show in an unseen dimension for a brief second and then much of nothing.

Ideally, following the rules of physics that have scientists scratching their brains, the archangel's Grace would have floated harmlessly along the planet like, well, dust in the wind. After many, many years, the pieces would have weakened. They would have decayed like radioactive material and, once losing their potency, they would have succumbed to the energy requirements of the planet.

Ideally, Gabriel would have become a prime example of the great Circle of Life.

Fortunately for him, Reality was anything but ideal.

_Now_

Despite driving for over twelve hours straight and then staying up to angel-child proof the Bunker, Dean hadn't been able to sleep. He was screwed. He was beyond screwed. His thoughts danced around all night, bouncing from one problem to the next. Ezekiel. Sam. Cas. Gabriel's little offspring. All these different things on his plate and he didn't know how to deal with them.

Zeke was the most pressing issue. The angel possessing his brother held too much power over him. He didn't want to admit that. He didn't want to accept that he had willingly put himself in a position to make no choice regarding his brother's welfare. But he had.

Dean tried explaining to himself that he was just making the best of a horrible situation when he let Zeke save Sam. That he had Cas' backing to trust the guy. That there was no way, at the time, for him to suspect that Zeke might not be a knight in shining armor.

But he was lying to himself. He was lying to himself just as he was lying to everyone else around him. The only difference was that he didn't care that he was lying to himself. He felt horrible about doing it to Sam; he felt horrible about doing it to Cas. But…denial ran through his veins just as easily as it ran through Egypt and hypocrisy may as well be his middle name.

Sure, Zeke had basically threatened to kill Sam to get away from Cas, but he'd done so out of fear. Zeke, for whatever reason, had pissed off the angels-just as Cas had-and he was just trying to survive. He just wanted to stay away from Naomi's protégé and Dean couldn't blame him. After what she'd put Cas through, anybody in their right mind would try and stay away from her goons.

So, Dean told himself, Zeke just needed some reassurance. He just needed to be shown that Dean could protect all of 'em from the bad angels and that he wouldn't have to kick his best friend out to the curb to do so.

Besides, Sam wouldn't allow him to throw Cas to the wolves. They'd already had that argument more than once. His brother was a stubborn ass. Once Sammy'd made up his mind there was no changing it. And Sam had already put his foot down on the whole Cas thing. He wasn't worried about Bart, or whoever, finding the Bunker, he was worried about more reapers or angels finding Cas. Dean was an idiot for ever thinking a bunch of books were more important than their friend.

And Dean couldn't argue with him there. He had been an idiot. A panicky idiot. And, for hours last night, he had played through so many different scenarios regarding kicking Cas out of the Bunker it wasn't even funny. Seriously, none of them were funny. The fact that Cas was _dead_ when they found him didn't bode well for many of the situations he'd cooked up in his head. Sure, Cas was warded against angels, but there were so many things out there that weren't angels. Dean knew he'd called the angel a 'big boy,' but after seeing him in that chair with a sword sticking out of his gut… Well, Dean's a seeing-is-believing sorta guy and he saw differently.

Dean, at about three in the morning, had finalized his decision regarding Zeke, Sam, and Cas. …The angel was staying. Not the one in his brother, the other one. Okay, so, the one in his brother was going to be staying too, but he didn't care about _that one_ like he cared about _the other one_. At about three-o'-one in the morning, Dean'd desperately wished his thoughts were more coherent than they were.

At three-o'-two, with the majority of his screwedness mentally squared away, Dean's thoughts had gravitated towards the little Gabriel spawn chillin' in their Bunker. When he'd first laid eyes on the angel child, he'd thought he was just an ordinary angel. The wings had been a bit new, but he figured that the chains hooked into them were keeping them corporeal. Or maybe the holy fire was doing that. The sigils written around the warehouse walls. Something! He certainly hadn't suspected 'angel baby' was the reason.

As he had told Cas, he hadn't realized angels could even have babies. As far as he knew, the flying dicks with wings had no dicks. Or, y'know, vaginas. Of course, they were probably using their Vessel's equipment, but that's all manner of gross on so many levels. Plus, what did they do? Super charge the sperm or eggs with their Grace? Glowing jizz? Ew, no thanks.

Besides, Cas had said Lemuel wasn't a _real_ angel child. Nephilim, or whatever, didn't have wings. So, Gabriel's not-quite-kid was a freak of nature of a freak of nature. Dean wasn't too thrilled with that. It was one thing to think of Gabriel getting his rocks off and forgetting to wear a rubber. Hey, irresponsible father of year was an award he could give to his own dad. It was another to think the asshole had somehow fucked up the kid after the fact. _That_ was a thought that made Dean want to punch the dick in the face, the whole dead thing and the risk of breaking his knuckles on concrete be damned.

Add to the fact that Lemuel had been in the presence of Lucifer and then Crowley and, well. Dean felt for the kid, he really did. Normally, after going to some place looking for a weapon and finding a monster, he would've said, "Nope," and kept going. But, Sam was a bleeding heart and…well, it was a _kid_. So what if he had wings? Dean wouldn't be able to sleep at night if he just left the guy strung up like that to starve to death. Not that he'd slept anyway.

Furthermore, Dean had an idea that the angel child would be useful to them in some way. Maybe he had access to another Angel Blade, or some other angel perks like healing touch and smiting? Maybe he could bend reality like the Trickster used to? After all, Crowley wouldn't have been keeping Lemuel if he wasn't useful. Though the King of Hell was a demon, and demons were liars, all signs pointed to him being truthful about keeping the kid as a weapon. What kind of weapon Dean didn't know, but the point remained. Lemuel could very well be a ticket to destroying Abaddon.

All they had to do was make sure the kid recovered fine. That he was all right. Spic-n-span and ready to take on some supernatural baddies. Dean figured it wouldn't take him no time for his wings to heal and then they would just have to work on the other messed up parts. Like the fact that Lemuel was as skinny as a rail. Or the mental trauma that came from being a demon's plaything. Dean had experienced the latter firsthand while in Hell. Then again, so had Sam. And, he hated to brush the teen off on his brother, but Sam was-once again-the bleeding heart. And Dean wasn't as good at that whole talk about the feelings thing. So, when it boiled down to it, Uncle Sammy was going to have his work cut out for him.

At five-thirty in the morning, Dean finally decided to roll out of bed. He didn't give anything else much thought once his feet hit the floor. He was done thinking. He'd thought the night away. Now, all he cared about was his coffee. He donned his ol' Men of Letters robe and made his way from his room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen.

Dean was only half-surprised to find a kettle already made and waiting for him. If the other day was anything to go by, Zeke had probably given Sam his eight hours again and then the fitness nut had hopped out of bed, bright and early, and went for another jog. Gag.

Dean poured himself a cup, sat at the small table near the door, and spent the next few minutes silently sipping away. His goal was to savor the moment, and the coffee, and psych himself up for the confrontations he knew he was going to have.

He did not reach his goal because, just as he was about to get another cup, in came Sam. With his pensive and brooding shoulders. And a look that clearly stated he was not happy. A look that was directed at him. Dean wondered what he'd done now.

"Dean," Sam said, skipping straight to business mode.

"Sam," he replied, pushing himself away from the table to actually fetch that cup of coffee. "You look pissed. What's up?"

"I need to speak with you."

"…yeah? You're doing that now?"

"Regarding Castiel."

Oh. Oh, wait.

"And the fact that he is still within the Bunker?"

If Dean had managed _his_ full eight hours, which for a Hunter was more like full four hours, then he would have caught on sooner that who had entered the kitchen was not Sam but Zeke. Sighing, Dean placed the kettle back on its wheeled tray. He made a point of taking one sip of coffee before continuing the conversation. Last thing he wanted was for Zeke to catch on to how nervous he really was.

"Look, Zeke," Dean began gently, "I know you told me to send Cas off. But…I can't do it, man. And don't give me that look. Sam gave me the same damn look when he found out I was going to give Cas the boot and, believe me, he looks a lot more intimidating using it than you do. Now, I know you're scared. You're afraid that-that-"

"Bartholomew and his angels?"

" _Bartholomew_ is going to find you and-and do something to you. I understand that, I do. But what you have to understand is that sending Cas away is not going to help."

Zeke certainly did not appear to be following that train of thought as he brought himself to full height, "Oh, really?"

"Yes. Really." Dean nodded once for emphasis. "Look, man. We got angel proofing. We got… We got books that you feathered mooks would probably murder to get your hands on. We got a prophet of the Lord! There are ways for us to protect you, hide you away, from angels and reapers and whatever else you're terrified of. But, Cas? Cas has got nothing but some fancy writing inked onto his skin. If I send him out there, there's no guarantee that he'll stay hidden. There's no guarantee that the next time we see him won't be in a body bag."

"You are grossly underestimating Castiel, Dean," Zeke said as he walked behind the table. "He may not be an angel physically but he is still one mentally. He is a soldier. Always has been and always will be. He still retains knowledge of our secrets. That is how he knew what sigils to brand himself with. Castiel will be fine, Dean, when you send him away. But I cannot guarantee your brother's safety-or anyone else's in this Bunker-if Bartholomew finds us. I cannot _allow_ him to find us."

"I'm not kicking Cas out, Zeke. And you're not skipping out on Sammy. We're going to put up some extra warding and stick together."

Dean's shoulders were tense as he watched Zeke. The angel obviously didn't like his idea, if the way his nostril's flared was anything to go by. He looked trapped. His eyes traveled around the room as he looked at anything but Dean. Dean took another calculated sip of his coffee before Zeke finally locked eyes with him again.

"Very well," the angel agreed. "We will follow your plan. But I want it to be clear that, should something happen as a result of this and I _am_ put in danger, I will leave."

"And Sam will die. Yes, I know. But what I'm saying is that it's _not_ going to come to that because we're not going to let it. For someone who's whole existence runs on faith you sure as hell don't have any. And why are you so eager to kick Cas out anyway? He had nothing but good words for you. You claim to like the guy! You _healed_ him for Chrissakes."

Zeke opened his mouth to respond but, before he could, he clamped his jaw shut and locked up. Dean frowned in confusion and followed his line of sight to the open door. A second later, Cas strolled into the kitchen looking just as confused as Dean.

Cas was carrying a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. He stopped short when he noticed Dean and 'Sam' standing in the kitchen. When Cas made eye contact with him his whole body seemed to sigh with relief. Dean quickly glared over at Zeke, hoping-praying-that the angel wouldn't say anything to tip Cas off.

"Dean," he breathed. "Sam."

"Hey, Cas," Dean greeted with a smile. "What's up?"

"I can't find Lemuel. He wasn't in his room." Cas looked down at the food he was holding, "I know he's not got all of his strength back, so I made him breakfast again to help with the healing process. But, I don't know where he's at and I don't want the food to get cold…"

He couldn't help but smirk, "Aw, look at you, Cas. A regular mother hen!"

Cas merely gave him an unamused stare for a reply. Right. Serious Cas wasn't fun Cas.

"Uh. Sorry, Cas. Haven't seen him. But I'm pretty sure he hasn't escaped the Bunker or anything, so you'll find him eventually. Just keep looking!"

He gave Cas a quick pat on the shoulder and then reached for a strip of bacon. He squawked in surprise when he felt the top of his hand popped. Jerking it away from the plate, he looked at Cas. The other man was all but glaring at him.

"That's not for you," Cas grumbled.

Dean spluttered as Cas turned away and headed back out on his mission. He'd just wanted one piece of bacon! It wasn't like that would deprive Lemuel _that_ much. Or would it? Hell if he knew.

Dean turned his attention back to Zeke. The angel had loosened up a little in his stance, but his eyes were still hard and trained on the area Cas had been standing in. With a sigh, Dean put his coffee cup down on the tray in front of him. The movement snapped Zeke out of whatever trance he was in. The angel turned his head to face him. Before Dean could speak, Zeke chose to.

"I do not wish to send my brother out into danger, Dean," the angel explained. "Just as I did not want him to die at the hands of that reaper. But…things have to be done, decisions have to be made, during times of war that no one wants. Heaven was still at war when the Fall happened. And I do not doubt that the angels will try to continue fighting on Earth."

Dean frowned, "So, what? You'd throw Cas under the bus to save yourself?"

"Not all of us have such a strong bond as you have with your brother. Few humans do and even fewer angels. I do not expect you to understand nor do I wish for you to. But you can rest assured that, for now, I will not act desperately because of my brother's presence."

Dean was silent for a long second before sighing again, "I guess that's as good a promise as I'm going to get, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Right." Dean replied, not at all assured. "So. Anything you can tell me about this Lemuel kid?"

"He will not expose me to your brother, if that is what you are worried about."

"Wait, he knows about you? Can he _see_ you?"

It was one thing to worry about Cas or Kevin finding out about Zeke and blabbing to Sam about it. Those two would be easy to trick. Zeke just didn't have to talk too formally or, ideally, show his face at all and they wouldn't be none the wiser. But Lemuel? If the nephilim could see, with that creepy ass angel vision Cas used to have, that Zeke was inside of Sammy… Well, then, they were screwed. Again.

"He can," Zeke replied a bit too calmly. "He did. In the van when Sam was driving him here to the Bunker. The young one panicked and tried to attack, so I intervened. Sam informed you of this. He left out me, of course."

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face, ignoring the haughty tone Zeke had used. Of course Sam had told him Lemuel had overreacted when he woke up. After all, he kinda had no choice since Dean'd called him to ask why he hadn't been following the Impala anymore. And, _of course_ Sam had left out that Zeke had shown up. Duh. He didn't know the guy was in his head. For a moment, Dean was almost upset with the angel kid for leaving out that little tidbit of info. But, it wasn't like they'd been given much time to talk privately and it wasn't like- Wait.

"What do you mean he won't tell Sam about you? Or any of the others?" Dean asked. "How can you be sure?"

Zeke tilted his head, "Because he does not wish for harm to come to Sam. More specifically, he does not wish harm to come to Vessels. The boy will remain silent about my presence because he fears that, if he speaks, he will be the cause of Sam's death."

Dean pursed his lips, "And…we're just gonna go with that? Your hunch into this kid's inner psyche, or whatever?"

"Trust me," Zeke said confidently. "He will not say anything."

"Alright. I'm takin' your word for it. But, that's not what I wanted to discuss. What I meant before was: What is his connection with…everything?"

The angel frowned, "I am not sure what you mean."

"Gabriel," Dean explained. "And Crowley. Lucifer. Angels. _Us._ Everything!"

"I know nothing of Crowley or Lucifer, but he holds a very small portion of Gabriel's Grace within him."

"Yeah, Cas mentioned that. What does that _mean_ exactly? Like, can we use that to our advantage? What are we looking at?"

Zeke didn't reply immediately. He browsed his surroundings again. It was almost a nervous tick the angel had. Dean had truly noticed it the first time when Zeke'd taken out the demons that had tried to kill Sam. Thinking back, he remembered the angel showing similar behavior when trapped in the holy fire and again before he jumped ship into Sam. Dean wasn't sure what the attitude meant, but he was keeping an eye out for it, now. It could mean nothing or it could be a tell.

"I am still unsure," Zeke admitted. "Normal nephilim would exhibit similar abilities of their angelic parent, though vastly less powerful. Since Gabriel's Grace did not bond properly with that of Lemuel's Soul, it seems to be exhibiting a far greater influence on him. Plus, what with it being an archangel's Grace…"

"I'm going to pretend I know what that means. That whole not bonding thing. I'm just going to assume that's why he has wings and shit. Can he smite?"

The smile Zeke gave him was borderline condescending. "I may be an angel, Dean, but I do not know everything. Lemuel's existence is not something that I have ever encountered before. I cannot instruct you on what to do in this situation. If you want him to face demons or angels, you will have to judge his strength on your own."

Dean was going to snipe something along the lines of, 'Well, then what good are ya?' but, just as he opened his mouth to speak, a shrill scream pierced through the Bunker. The look of confusion Zeke gave him was almost as comical as Sam's, but Dean was more focused on the threat of danger than the accidental humor.

He wasted no time running out of the kitchen into the hallway. He highly doubted Cas could hit that register, even in fear, so that left Kevin or Lemuel as the screamer. Regardless of who had screamed, the causes couldn't be good. Luckily, the sound had been nearby. He heard Sam's footsteps behind him, so he knew Zeke had followed him.

The two of them checked the adjacent rooms and on, each new room showing no occupant. Just when Dean was thinking of turning back to check the library and vestibule areas of the Bunker, he flung open a door that led to one of the bathrooms.

The first thing his eyes lighted on was Lemuel. The angel child was sitting in the middle of the floor, buck naked, with the shower head pointed askew so that the water would fall not in the shower but on him. The second thing his eyes lighted on was Kevin standing _just_ in front of the door-and it was a miracle he hadn't been hit by it when Dean burst in-with his head in his hands and face red as a cherry. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what had happened.

"Was that _you_?" Dean asked the prophet, genuine surprise coloring his voice.

He felt Zeke walk away from the scene, probably to avoid confrontation with Lemuel, as Kevin answered.

"I haven't slept and I forgot he was here and I forgot to knock and I didn't need to see that."

Lemuel didn't seem to mind the intrusion at all. He was more focused on…cleaning his wings, it appeared. The boy was meticulously separating each feather near the top joint on his right wing and was scrubbing them with his fingers. He must've been at it while, considering the puddle on the floor.

"You're getting water everywhere," Dean grouched.

Lemuel didn't look away from his work as he replied, "Yeah, well. My wings wouldn't fit in the shower and there was dried blood on them. It itched and felt gross. Would you walk around with blood caked all over _your_ body?"

He had Dean there, but Dean wasn't about to let himself be out sassed.

"Yeah, well," he mocked. "You look like you're taking a bird bath."

Lemuel's fingers stilled. Then a _very_ familiar mischievous smirk graced his lips and Dean knew he'd fucked up. Without further warning, the nephilim shook his wings out like, well, a bird. Dean and Kevin cried out and tried to protect themselves from the onslaught of water that flew at them. When the attack stopped, Lemuel looked him right in the eyes, smile still plastered on his falsely innocent face, and said:

"Tweet."

Yep. Dean was screwed.

* * *

Castiel was confused. The source of his confusion was Lemuel. It had been three days since Dean and Sam brought the nephilim to the Bunker. The young man had adjusted well, all things considered. Being rescued from the clutches of demons was bound to bring some relief to an individual, but…Lemuel sure showed his gratitude in strange ways.

For one, he seemed to have it out for Dean. Perhaps that was an exaggeration. Lemuel wasn't overtly aggressive towards the eldest Winchester, but he definitely took every opportunity to 'poke the bear' as the expression goes. Of course, Lemuel was snippy with pretty much anybody who tried talking to him, but Dean got the full force of his wrath. And, because Dean could give as good as he got, their verbal spats quickly almost became physical confrontations.

Sam and he had learned pretty quick when to intervene to keep such a thing from happening. Sam knew his brother enough to know when Dean was about to resort to violence; Castiel could read an angel's wings well enough to do the same for Lemuel.

Castiel hypothesized that the young man was just lashing out because he hadn't been able to do so when in the 'care' of the demons. However, such understanding didn't make Lemuel's behavior any less annoying. Or potentially dangerous. Though Dean suffered the brunt of Lemuel's hostility, Sam experienced a passive brand of it, as well. Not that Sam ever noticed. He doubted Sam would, considering that wing behavior wasn't something humans tended to know.

Whenever the Winchester would step too close to Lemuel the nephilim would puff up. It wasn't a blatant show of aggression for an angel, but still one that was meant to be heeded. Making one's feathers stand on end in such a way was the same as a dog growling. For some reason, Lemuel felt threatened or encroached upon in Sam's presence. On more than one occasion, Castiel had found himself wishing his own wings back just to convey a silent message to stand down. Instead, he had to settle for reproachful stares from across the library.

He had thought of bringing the issue up with Dean, positive that the eldest Winchester would want to know that their latest edition to the Bunker had a beef with his brother. But, with Dean's already strained relationship towards the young man, Castiel had decided against it. Though Dean had expressed his desire to help Lemuel, he wasn't sure such feelings would remain the same after such news. And, as Dean had said, thrusting Lemuel out into the world looking like 'an X-men or something' wouldn't be very polite. In fact, it could very well prove a death sentence. If demons didn't get a hold of him, the angels would.

That conversation had quickly led to a similar topic. Castiel hadn't been able to stop himself. He'd still felt abandoned and hurt after Dean had tried to send him away. So, he'd called him on it. Practically accused Dean for valuing a stranger over him with his tone. Dean had been equally hurt by those words. Castiel did feel bad about hurting his friend's feelings, but he had also been angry. He'd needed Dean to know that.

Dean'd apologized profusely. Stressed that he hadn't been thinking and that he was sorry if he offended Castiel. He decided to prove it by fixing Castiel one of his 'famous Winchester burgers.' He didn't have the heart to remind Dean that his love for hamburgers wasn't really _his_ love. Besides, the hamburger had been quite enjoyable. He appreciated the gesture.

In fact, Castiel had made sure to observe Dean while making it. He was starting to pride himself in his skill with cooking. He wasn't a chef by any standards, but his inquisitive mind did allow for him to take to the art faster than most. At least, that's what he liked to tell himself. And, as he'd made it his job to prepare Lemuel his meals, Castiel wanted to branch out from run-of-the-mill breakfasts and dinners. After all, he was pretty sure that eggs, bacon, and toast were not healthy if consumed every morning.

On the second day he brought the nephilim his food, he had made a point to bring up Lemuel's aggressive behavior towards Sam. Lemuel'd proven to be unresponsive to his chiding, though. He acted like he hadn't heard him at all. He simply took his plate of food and began eating. But, after that, Lemuel started behaving differently towards _him_.

That's when Castiel's confusion of the nephilim also adopted a twinge of wariness. Lemuel started showing signs of submissiveness towards him. Not via his actions, he certainly wasn't correcting his behaviors when scolded, but via his wings. He would lower them. Loosen them. The first time he'd done it, Castiel had assumed it to be error. An amusing accident. But, every time after that, when Lemuel came around him, the nephilim would lower his wings.

Castiel didn't approve. Lemuel was, essentially, showing him respect on an angelic level and Castiel was no angel. Not anymore. And he had done nothing to warrant such a display. It was frustrating. He didn't _deserve_ it. He was just trying to do the right thing. He shouldn't be treated like a superior for simply making sure the nephilim was well.

Lemuel had also started stalking him. Castiel could feel him hovering around like a shadow. Castiel also knew that the Lemuel knew that he was aware of being stalked, and that made it even more frustrating. He had no idea what Lemuel wanted, but he really wished he would stop.

Castiel tried thinking of reasons to explain this change in behavior. Was it because he was bringing Lemuel food and thus taking care of him? Was it some strange imprinting thing? Was it for some more nefarious purpose? Was Lemuel spying on him for Crowley?

The last question didn't really hold weight. Not with the submissive wing behavior. Unless, of course, Lemuel was luring him in with a false sense of security now that he knew Castiel could read his body language in such a way. That was a worrying thought. After all, he _had_ been known to trust the wrong people.

He didn't like being followed. He didn't like being watched. Unfortunately, he also didn't like confrontation. So, Castiel found himself mentally mourning his privacy while being too hesitant to address Lemuel on his stalking. It wasn't like the young man was harming him or anything. Just…being really annoying and obvious. He had stood up for Sam because Sam was his friend and he thought Lemuel might do something that could ultimately harm the two of them. However, he couldn't find the gumption to stand up for himself. Not yet, anyway.

He almost had at dinner tonight.

Dean had cooked again. He'd said it was because he was trying to teach Castiel a few things, and he _had_ observed Dean, but Castiel knew it was really because he enjoyed taking care of his 'family.' Sam knew it, too, and had wasted no time in teasing his brother over the domesticity. Dean'd quipped that, if Sam didn't shut up, he wasn't going to be getting any food. Kevin joined in on the fun. The mood had been, over all, jovial.

Whereas he and the others had sat at the two tables closest to the vestibule in the library, Lemuel had opted to sit at the table farthest from them. When asked to join them, the nephilim had shook his head no and remarked about not wanting his wings to accidentally get in the way. Castiel doubted that was his true reasoning. Not that he would fault Lemuel for being a bit anti-social. But all throughout dinner, Lemuel, for all his flippant air, never stopped paying attention to what was being said by them.

Castiel felt Lemuel's eyes on _him_ most of the time. When he'd cut his eyes across the room to check, Lemuel had averted his gaze. But, on occasion, their eyes would meet. And, when they did, it looked like Lemuel wasn't really looking _at_ him but rather _through_ him. That, the feeling of being stared into, was what almost made Castiel break his silence. Because, then, he wasn't simply being followed for curiosity's sake. He wasn't simply being spied on for Crowley. He was being studied. Picked apart. And he didn't like it.

He'd kept quiet, though. After he'd eaten, he excused himself as quickly and politely as he could. He used the excuse that he wanted to help Kevin translate bright and early in the morning. Then, he hurried off to bed.

His bedroom was still blank. Boring in a way. Yet, Castiel liked it. It was orderly. Something that his life hadn't been in a while. His mattress was a little uncomfortable, but it beat sleeping in that old bus. It certainly beat sleeping in an alley during the rain. On the whole, he wasn't complaining.

He had entertained the idea of finding an old bookshelf somewhere. Either in a dumpster or a thrift shop. Maybe find some spare pieces of wood lying around so that he could make one. A bookshelf would add a little life to his room. The Men of Letters kept their library stocked with some very interesting tomes that he was sure Sam and Dean wouldn't miss. If they did, well, they could always come borrow them from him. And there were a lot of little trinkets the Men of Letters had hidden away in storage that weren't dangerous. They would probably make nice knick-knacks for the shelves.

As he was straightening the sheets on his bed, Castiel heard the door open. Thinking it was Sam or Dean coming to check on him because of how he'd left, he took his time in finishing his chore. When he did stand up and look over his shoulder, the hair stood on the back of his neck.

Lemuel had entered his bedroom. The nephilim was shutting the door behind him, careful to mind his long primaries on the door and nearby end table. Castiel glared at his back. It was one thing to stalk him, it was one thing to study him, it was a completely different thing to invade his personal space-something he'd come to value as a human-without his permission.

"Is there some reason you feel it appropriate to come in here uninvited, Lemuel?" He snapped.

Lemuel didn't seem flustered by his commanding tone. All the young man did was turn, lower his wings, and smile pleasantly at Castiel. That was not the reaction he wanted from Lemuel. He wanted Lemuel to understand that he had over-stepped his boundaries. Then again, maybe bad manners was to be expected from a child raised by demons.

"I know who you are," Lemuel almost purred.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" He challenged.

Lemuel shrugged cheekily, "I could hear them. The angels. When they talked to one another."

"You can hear the Host?" Castiel asked in disbelief.

Nephilim shouldn't have that ability. Of course, Lemuel showed obvious differences from the one nephilim he had met-and killed-but to be able to hear the frequency of the Host and even understand it. That was a very rare gift. Personally, he knew of only Anna that had managed such a feat. There were probably others, but…

"I could," Lemuel replied.

He walked over to Castiel's bed and threw himself upon it, bouncing once on his rump. Castiel's displeasure towards Lemuel increased as the young man wiggled himself comfortable and stretched his wings out onto the mattress. From the mischievous glint in his eyes, Castiel knew that Lemuel was purposefully trying to aggravate him by claiming his space. It was working. Plus, he'd just rumpled the once smooth sheets, making all of Castiel's hard work for naught.

Lemuel continued, "I stopped listening most of the time because the voices got too loud or annoying. Took me a while to figure out how, but all I had to do was wish very hard for them to go away and they did. I'd tune back in every once in a while, though. And, boy, the things they said about you."

He tensed and said, "I can imagine."

"You were a legend," Lemuel went on. He started to sway back-and-forth a little, "Some of them hated you and some of them loved you, but you were all they talked about."

"Why are you telling me this? Here? Now?" He growled. "If you came to antagonize me, you could have easily done so elsewhere!"

The nephilim stilled and frowned, "Because I didn't come here to antagonize you, I came here to talk to you. I came here to tell you that I can still see traces of angel on you. Like a shimmering mist that clings to the air around you. It's very, very faint, but it's there."

"And?"

"Sam looks different, too."

That caused Castiel to pause. Sensing supernatural auras wasn't abnormal for a nephilim, so he had no reason to believe that Lemuel was lying-about his aura or Sam's. The only problem was what Lemuel sensed around Sam. It couldn't be the demon blood. Ever since the Trials, when Sam tried to shut the Gates of Hell, Castiel himself hadn't been able to sense that lingering presence in the man's blood. Or his genetic make-up. But, that may have been because of the Word.

When he had told Sam that the youngest Winchester was changed in ways even he couldn't fix, that was what he had meant. The Word of God was being made flesh within the man, and It was changing him. Castiel was actually amazed that It hadn't done as much damage as he'd expected It to. That Sam had recovered fully after he'd stopped the Trials was nothing short of a miracle. And Castiel had to admit that, even as a man who'd lost his faith.

"Maybe it's the Word," Castiel mumbled, mostly to himself.

Lemuel hummed. "Maybe."

The careless way he'd said that made Castiel suspicious. "I ask you again, Lemuel, why are you telling me this?"

The nephilim finally removed himself from Castiel's bed, sliding off the mattress fluidly. Castiel tensed when Lemuel walked to stand in front of him. It was unnerving to look down into eyes that reminded him so much of Gabriel's.

"Because you're a good guy, Castiel," Lemuel explained. "You've done a lot for me. Despite what I've done to you. And you tried to protect Sam from me. You _care_. Because of that, I trust you. I trust you to do what needs to be done to protect those you care about. You always have, haven't you?"

Castiel frowned as Lemuel pulled away. Nothing was making sense. Had Lemuel been testing him? Gauging his reactions based on what he had heard over Angel Radio? Was that why the nephilim had been studying him so intently at dinner and all the other times he'd followed him? Why the need for such secrecy?

Lemuel didn't speak after that. He exited Castiel's bedroom as silently as he'd entered. Behind him he left a messy bed and a mess of thoughts.

Castiel was confused. The source of his confusion was Lemuel…and Sam.

* * *

Kevin was nearing the end of his rope. First, there was the translating. Then there was the sleep deprivation. On top of that was the nephilim running around the library. His stress levels were ridiculously high and he was starting to think they would never go back down. He was either going to stroke out or have a heart attack at the ripe ol' age of nineteen. It was ridiculous.

He'd thought he'd been on to something with the whole archangel thing, but… Maybe he'd thought wrong. He had checked the angel Tablet over and over again for any sort of further information. Any clue as to where he was supposed to head next with his research. But, he was getting nothing. Of course, he couldn't really concentrate. The lack of sleep was one thing. Lemuel was another. Lemuel was a completely different ballpark.

At first, Kevin had been extremely intrigued by the nephilim. He thought it would be nice to have another young guy running around the Bunker to interact with. So what if he had wings? The wings were equally interesting! But, Lemuel proved to be extremely rough around the edges. Kevin could understand why, he really could, but. It was a bit disappointing trying to strike up a conversation with the guy only to be either ignored or mocked. Kevin just didn't have the patience with Lemuel that Castiel did. Watching Cas interact with Lemuel was like watching a saint work. Kevin really gained an appreciation of the term 'angelic.'

So, instead of hang out or try to be friends with the guy, Kevin chose to keep to himself and study his Tablets. Which would have been a wonderful idea had Lemuel not suddenly decided the library was the most interesting place in the entire Bunker. Anytime Kevin came into the area to look for another book on dead languages or mythical creatures, Lemuel was sitting around reading. Or, Kevin suspected, he was _trying_ to read. The nephilim stared a book down with his eyebrows scrunched up in such a way that Kevin wondered how the guy didn't get migraines.

It wasn't just Lemuel's presence that threw him off his A-game, however. Lemuel also liked taking the books he needed. At first, he thought it was just a fluke. An unfortunate accident that made it so he had to either ask for the book or simply do without in a grumpy fit. But, after a few days of the books he was reading constantly winding up in Lemuel's hands, Kevin knew the nephilim was doing it on purpose. The only thing Kevin couldn't figure out was if it was some sort of joke or not. He didn't know if Lemuel was being an asshole or if he was just curious to know what was going on. Either way, it was annoying and causing him problems.

One time, he'd made the mistake of leaving his notes out. He came back from the kitchen to find them shuffled about and out of order. He knew Lemuel had been the culprit. Dean, Sam, and Cas wouldn't have bothered touching his stuff because they knew, from previous conversations, that such 'pranks' could seriously hinder his progress. He'd glared at Lemuel, who'd been sitting quietly in a corner, staring at a book like he was trying to burn it with his eyes. Kevin had wanted to say something to him _so bad_ , but he didn't. He figured he would if it happened again, but one time because of curiosity shouldn't warrant his full-blown, I've-finally-snapped rage. Luckily, it didn't happen again.

Now, four days after Lemuel had arrived, Kevin was at a standstill. Castiel had volunteered to help him for the day, but even he couldn't give Kevin pointers as to where he should look. He could describe the archangels' previous jobs and the like, but he couldn't instruct him how they had vanquished the Knights of Hell. Or why. He and Cas could theorize the obvious answers, but it was always best to know for certain how the deed had been done. However, Cas did make for a good translator regarding the cuneiform. The fallen angel was rusty, but he was generally in the ballpark regarding what the symbols stood for.

Around noon, and just after finishing the sandwiches Castiel had made for them, Kevin nearly jumped out of his skin as Lemuel slammed a book down on the table in front of them. Cas didn't seem as thrilled about the violent interruption, either.

"Lemuel," the fallen angel scolded.

"Angels are energy, right?" Lemuel asked.

Kevin looked at the book that had barely missed crashing onto the edge of the Tablet. It was about angels. Figures.

"I would best describe them as wavelengths of celestial intent," Castiel replied.

The frustrated glare Lemuel gave him almost made Kevin chuckle. Obviously, the poor guy had no idea what that meant. So, he clarified.

"Yes," Kevin said. "You could call them energy. Sound and light are both forms of energy that have wavelengths."

"Technically-"

"Baby steps, Cas."

Lemuel looked between the two of them. "Is electricity energy?"

"Yes?" He half-asked, wondering what the nephilim was getting at.

"When you turn the light off, does the electricity stop?"

He frowned, "No? The current stops moving, but there's still power running to it. It's why they tell you to unplug your appliances to save a little extra money on your electric bill."

"So, because the electricity is still there, you can turn the lights back on."

"What are you getting at, Lemuel?" Castiel questioned.

"Why don't you turn an archangel back on?"

Kevin's mental processes hit a wall on that one. Lemuel's question was so off the wall that he couldn't think for a few seconds. But, when his brain managed to boot back up and actually process what the guy was saying, the gears started clicking. Yes, the nephilim had worded his question extremely simple, but Kevin was starting to see what he meant.

Though Lemuel seemed to be basing his theory on simple observation of a light switch, there was a law in physics that allowed for what he truly meant. The ever popular Law of the Conservation of Energy. Energy could neither be created nor destroyed within a closed system. If they were to base angels as beings of energy that operated within the closed system of, Kevin wasn't sure, the universe, maybe, then…it stood to reason that they couldn't truly be destroyed. Changed but not destroyed. When he thought about it, that's what Souls did, right? Just moved on to Heaven, Hell, or Purgatory without being destroyed?

The Winchesters had said Lucifer and Michael were trapped within Hell, but Raphael and Gabriel had been killed. Maybe an angel's Grace acted like a Soul and their Grace still remained somewhere. The Winchesters were known for bringing people back from the dead, so it wasn't a far stretch to think that they could pull something similar with an archangel. Wait.

"How do you know the archangels are dead?" Kevin accused.

Lemuel shrugged, "I read some of your notes."

"I knew it!"

"An angel's death is a lot more complicated than shutting off a light," Castiel spoke up.

Kevin frowned at him, "Where do angel's go when they die?"

He was surprised that the question seemed to catch Castiel off guard. The fallen angel opened his mouth and shut it a few times, looking distressed. He sighed.

"I don't know. Every time I died, I didn't remember anything when I came back. One moment I was there, and then I wasn't, and then I was again."

"So you _can_ come back?" Lemuel stressed.

" _No._ "

"You did," Kevin pointed out.

"Because I'm broken!" Castiel shouted. His jaw clenched as he realized he'd snapped. "I wasn't… I wasn't made right. At least, that's Naomi said. I thought… You know what, it doesn't matter what I thought. The point remains that I am not the best example to use for resurrecting angels."

An awkward silence descended upon their little group. Kevin had known Castiel was struggling with his own issues regarding his newfound humanity. It wasn't just the, 'Oops, had sex with a homicidal reaper,' thing, either. He had lost a vital piece of himself. He was coping as best he could with everything, but he still had difficulty processing some things. Emotional things. Inner troubles. And his outburst just now revealed he'd been having problems for a while. Kevin knew how that felt. He knew that Cas needed somebody to talk to but that he probably didn't realize that he did. Kevin had tried getting Cas to talk to him on more than one occasion, but the fallen angel seemed hesitant to share his troubles with the 'prophet of the lord' that he barely knew. Dean was probably the best candidate for a pep talk, considering how much Castiel seemed to trust him.

"Gabriel is broken," Lemuel finally spoke. When Kevin and Castiel gave him confused looks, he explained, "I have a piece of him inside of me. That's what you said. That piece is still alive, right?"

"That depends on your definition of alive," Castiel muttered.

"It _exists_ ," Lemuel seethed, growing frustrated. "Why did a piece of his Grace left within me continue to exist as it always had _after_ he died? You may not remember what happens when an angel dies, but I think I'm living proof that they don't simply disappear."

Kevin shifted uncomfortably. Things were getting a bit too heated.

"He has a point, Castiel," he said hesitantly. "I mean, Souls go somewhere, right? They don't poof away and never come back. Maybe. Maybe an angel's Grace just kinda…hangs around, or something?"

Cas looked between the two of them. He didn't look like he wanted to agree, but he did look like he was starting to regardless.

"Hypothetically speaking," the fallen angel began, "if an angel, a being of pure energy, died but could not be destroyed it isn't unfathomable to believe that their essence would remain behind in some form. When an angel dies, their Grace explodes. It's ripped asunder by the force of their death. Whatever condition Gabriel's Grace is in now, years after his demise, it is certainly not whole and certainly not useable."

Kevin thought about Cas' words. "What if we made it whole?"

"How?" Castiel asked, clearly dreading the possibility of an answer.

He shrugged, "Lemuel's got a piece of it, right? Is there anyway to use that as a magnet? Draw the other pieces to it?"

Castiel frowned. He was silent as he stared blankly at the table in front of them. Kevin cast a quick look at Lemuel and was surprised to see that the nephilim looked upset. Almost angry. But that anger didn't seem to be directed at them, so he didn't ask what was wrong. Eventually, Castiel spoke.

"In the insane scenario that Gabriel's Grace remains, in pieces, across the globe, the only way that I can conceive of putting it back together, like an _impossible_ jig-saw puzzle, would be to gather as much of his remaining energy and then perform a summoning ritual for him. The Grace, drawn in with the call, should try to bond with itself, eventually forming back into a whole."

"Would that really work?" Lemuel questioned.

"I want to say no," Cas replied, looking at him. "I want to say no and call both of you fools for even believing in such a hair-brained idea. But, I've become accustomed to doing the impossible."

"So, it'll work," Kevin said.

" _Hypothetically._ "

Hypothetically. Hypothetically was good. Hypotheses could be tested, after all.


	4. You Know You Got To Help Me Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait. There's a certain mindspace I have to be in to write Lemuel and...took me a minute or a thousand to get into it. I'll try to update the next chapter sooner. ...I'll also try to add a little more meat to its bones than this one has.
> 
> Chapter title taken from the song "All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers.

_Now_

Lemuel was angry. He was always angry. As far back as he could remember there was an underlying anger that had simmered in his heart. Though, at one time, it had been a little overpowered by fear. Fear of what the demons would do to him. When they would do it to him.

His fury had been the response to his terror. He couldn't show weakness around the demons. They loved knowing they got under his skin. He couldn't cry; couldn't feel sorry for himself. So, he defaulted to the only other option. And he used it to keep himself going.

Fear and anger. It'd been so long since he'd felt anything else.

Being with the Winchesters, Kevin, and Castiel hadn't really changed much in him. He wasn't afraid. That was a switch. He still had nightmares whenever he _did_ get to sleep, but they came with only a muted sense of the terror he once felt. Nothing like the real thing. But the anger? It persisted. It weaseled its way out at random times and because of the smallest reasons.

Dean could look at him funny and he'd feel it. He'd let it lash out and burn, scathe, pierce. He'd let it be fueled by Dean's own, like tinder. Sam- _Ezekiel_ -could come near him and he'd feel it. He'd let it show itself through tense stances, quiet glares, and dark schemes. Castiel could scold him and he'd feel it. He'd let it out with a disinterested air and a penchant for doing the opposite of what he'd been told. Kevin could talk to him and he'd feel it. He'd let it out with short words and a holier-than-thou attitude.

He'd see an angel in a book and he'd feel it. He'd hear the name Gabriel and he'd feel it. He'd see his wings, he'd see how his wounds had healed, he'd see how he didn't need to eat, or sleep, or even relieve himself as often as the others and he'd feel it. He'd let it out by trying to read, trying to research, trying to do anything that could make him understand why _he_ had to be the one to be different. Why _he_ had to be the one to suffer.

And if the only way for him to gain those answers was to use himself as bait for some dead archangel, then so be it. Let him be a tool. Let him be a weapon. Anything that would let him tear the wings off of Gabriel with his own bare hands. He'd hate reducing himself to that just like he hated his very existence, but it'd be worth it.

It wasn't like the others actually cared about him. Sure, Dean had _allowed_ him to stay with them, and Castiel made sure his needs were met, and Sam and Kevin would try to talk to him. But, that was just manners, wasn't it? Keeping the useful kid satisfied because they needed him. They didn't want him. He wasn't about to let himself be fooled that they did. He wasn't entirely certain that he wanted them to want him, anyway.

He didn't like Dean, for one thing. As far as he was concerned, Dean was a disgusting human being. The proof always hovered around him. It shimmered faintly behind Sam's back.

What kind of man lets an angel trick his brother? Lets it defile him? Doesn't even tell his brother about what he's done to him?

But, that would all work out in the end. Lemuel would make sure of it. He'd already taken the first step by telling Castiel about Sam's 'condition.' Not that Castiel had figured it out, _yet_ , but the once-angel was smart. He'd pick up on things eventually. Follow the breadcrumbs until he found the problem and thought of a solution. If he needed a little help along the way, Lemuel would gleefully assist him.

Lemuel hadn't lied when he'd told Castiel he trusted him. He did trust him. He caught himself liking the guy. Even if he couldn't show it right. Even if Castiel always seemed tired with him.

Every once in a while, he'd let himself acknowledge his internal struggle. That struggle of wanting to have friends, of wanting to let go of his old anger and feel something he hadn't allowed himself to for years. Didn't have the opportunity or reason to feel. But he'd always pull away from that chance. He'd always let his wrath resettle and make itself at home again in his chest.

Because they didn't want him.

So, when Sam and Dean, finally, returned from wherever they'd gone earlier that morning, and Kevin cornered them near the giant table at the end of the stairs with a short burst of, "We're going to resurrect Gabriel. Or try to, anyway," Lemuel kept his anger moderately in check, only letting it out in the form of a somewhat prideful smirk aimed at the Winchesters.

Dean, holding a small sack of groceries and a pack of beer, gave Kevin a perplexed look. Sam, unlike Dean, stared at Kevin thoughtfully.

Lemuel got the impression that Sam was smart. Dumb enough to not realize he was possessed, but smart enough to figure out problems like Castiel was. Maybe, one day, he'd catch on to his special visitor. Notice that he was missing time.

Lemuel knew that Ezekiel was using Sam's body. He'd seen the angel, again, days before. When everyone had stormed in on him while he was showering. Ezekiel had tried to run away, but Lemuel'd seen the glowing, broken wings and dim halo. There was no escaping his eyes. If Ezekiel was running around doing who-knew-what, then Sam was unconscious, trapped in his own mind, and time was just passing around him. Surely, he'd notice a clock and wonder why so many minutes magically went by?

"Resurrect Gabriel?" Dean asked as he placed the sack of groceries and the beer on the table.

"Yes," Kevin replied.

The other young man seemed excited at the prospect. Genuinely happy at the idea of bringing the archangel back so that Gabriel could wave his hand and fix all their problems. Though Lemuel was excited, too, for more malicious reasons, he doubted the archangel could or would help them. He believed the only thing Gabriel was good for was screwing up anything he touched.

"Resurrect _Gabriel_?" Dean stressed. His tone of voice clearly showed he didn't seem to like this idea. "The guy was a douche bag, Kev. You can't pick someone else? Someone we _like_?"

Kevin frowned, "No. Because we're trying to get an _archangel_ under our control. The only other option is Raphael. And we don't have a chunk of his Grace standing in the same room as us, now do we? So, yes, Dean. I'm positive that we can't magic any other archangel back to life."

"Jeez. Snippy. I was just askin'. "

"Grace?" Sam questioned. "What do you need with Gabriel's Grace? Didn't it, like, die with him?"

"Not all of it," Lemuel murmured.

He loathed that fact. He loathed that he reminded everybody of the archangel responsible for making his life a living Hell. Oh, well. He'd repay that debt in full. Hopefully.

Kevin gave him a slightly worried look before facing Sam, "Like I said, Lemuel's got a piece in him. We came up with a theory that… It's a long story. Look, basically, Gabriel's Grace exploded and we're going to try to bring it back together using Lemuel as a magnet. And, with Gabriel's Grace whole, maybe we can bring _all_ of him back."

"I don't know…" Dean hesitated, pulling a beer from the case. "Cas? What do you think?"

The once-angel was awkwardly standing off to the side, seemingly half in his own little world and half in theirs. At Dean's question, Castiel's eyes refocused and drew themselves to the Winchester's.

"What?" he asked.

Dean's brow furrowed as he opened his drink. "The whole mojoing-Gabriel-back-to-life thing?"

"Oh. Um. I…" He paused, sighed, and then continued. "I don't think we have many other options."

"Sure we do!" Dean exclaimed. "We could have Kevin keep translating the Tablets for a way to shove the angels back into Heaven. Or we could have him-"

"There is only one way to kill Metatron," Castiel interrupted, his tone bordering on harsh. When Dean shut up, Castiel continued. "As an archangel, the only thing that can kill him is another archangel. Even if Kevin finds a way to reverse the spell, Metatron still poses a threat. He can just as easily cast all the angels out again. Or bend them to his will. As the Scribe, he'd have enough sway over them to do so. _Metatron has to die_ , Dean. And to do that we _need_ Gabriel."

Lemuel refused to let his confusion show on his face. He may have heard bits and pieces of what was going on with the 'cosmic battle' raging outside the Bunker and he may have gleaned a few things from Kevin's notes, but, for the most part, he had no idea what was going on. He _could_ listen in on the angels and try to find out. But, as he'd told Castiel, their voices wound up being too much for him.

Instead, he decided to pick apart the clues Castiel was unwittingly giving him. For one, _all_ of the angels had been 'cast' out of Heaven. He would have laughed at them, if he didn't know what that meant for the humans. The angels would need bodies. His jaw clenched.

This Metatron person-archangel-was responsible for that. If what Castiel said was true… Then, yes, he would have to be killed, wouldn't he? But what was this about a 'scribe?' Biting on his bottom lip, Lemuel decided he'd have to research more about the other archangel. He wasn't going to look forward to that. The books the Bunker had contained such big words he didn't know how to read.

Dean frowned then shrugged, "Man, this sucks. How many assholes we gotta put up with before this is through?"

"How, exactly, are we supposed to bring him back? You mentioned the pieces of Grace. That sounds like looking for a needle in haystack. Or a needle in a stack of needles, considering how many dead angels could be floating around." Sam asked.

"Well," Kevin stressed. "Cas mentioned that if we found, like, bigger chunks of it and brought them together that we could use a spell, and Lemuel, to draw all the parts together."

"Cas?" Dean prompted.

"Find something that was once bathed in Gabriel's Grace. That would hold enough of…a _charge_ , if you want to call it that. You'll probably need more than one artifact, however. Archangel Grace is far greater than a normal angel's, meaning you'd need more residual energy in one place to jumpstart the resurrection process. Then simply call Gabriel. The stronger the spell, the more exact the spell, the better. There's still no guarantee this will work, but it won't hurt if it doesn't, I guess."

"So, what?" Sam began slowly. "Like…Gabriel's Horn?"

All heads turned to face him.

"What?!"

Lemuel had read about that. Gabriel was supposed to have a horn that would usher the Apocalypse when blown. Other books called it a 'Horn of Truth.' He didn't know what that meant. Maybe it made people tell the truth, or it revealed the truth in some other fashion. Holy things seemed to be really cryptic sometimes. Relying on vague messages to get a point across. Lemuel wasn't a big fan. Though…if the horn really could expose the truth and also get them one step closer to bringing Gabriel back.

He let his eyes flicker to the mirage of Ezekiel's wings floating behind Sam. Yeah. Yeah, he could get behind finding the item.

"Wasn't that thing stolen, though? From that horn shop, or whatever?" Dean asked. "Besides. Cas, didn't you retrieve all of Heaven's weapons? When we came back from that bizarre TV land alternate reality place?"

"No," Castiel replied. "I only managed to retrieve the weapons that Balthazar had stolen from Heaven. Gabriel's Horn, among others, was taken _before_ that. In the case of the Horn, way before."

"Oh, well, that's lovely." Dean smiled sardonically. "There's more of Heaven's mojo out there just waiting to accidentally fuck up the place."

"Anyways," Sam stressed. "So, gathering up the Horn is considered retrieving one of those sources of a lot of Grace?"

"Yes," Castiel said.

"Well, that's one thing we can look for. What else? Is there anything you can think of? I mean, you probably know more about what Gabriel touched than we do."

Castiel frowned thoughtfully. His gaze traveled to the desk in-between them. They waited in awkward silence. Dean's full attention was on Castiel as he sipped away at his beer. Sam's eyes tended to dart between the two of them. As if he were seeking confirmation from his brother the same as he sought information from Castiel. Lemuel found that amusing, really. Dean didn't appear to know anything, but Sam still defaulted to him. Considering his circumstances, that was also depressing. Kevin bounced on the balls of his feet. He was entirely too wound up sometimes. Lemuel chalked it up to his caffeine intake.

Eventually, Castiel looked up from the table, his eyes meeting Sam's.

"I'm not sure. We didn't really hang out. However, there are stories. Some that humans came up with based on encounters with him, some, of course, are false. Others may not be. I do remember something about a chalice. Sort of like your Holy Grail, but not the same artifact. And…I faintly remember something about a scythe but that could have been a metaphor? I'm sorry. I'm not a good source of information for this."

"Hey, no problem, Cas," Dean reassured. "At least you helped us get this far."

Sam fidgeted a little before saying, "What about the computer?"

"What like Google?" Dean asked.

"No, not like-" Sam trailed off to scowl at his brother.

"I think he means the big computer _thing_ with the map on it that, y'know, right in front of us," Kevin suggested helpfully. "It lit up when the angels fell and there were alarms sort of going off. Like a warning system. I…don't know how it works, really."

Tearing his gaze from a slightly offended Dean, Sam looked at Kevin, "There's a room that has the actual computer in it. I can show it to you. It's old as hell and, from what I can tell, runs on some form of magic. It's completely too complicated for me to figure out. But, I'm thinking it can track angels if we, y'know, figure out how to use it… I was going to call Charlie to work it out. Maybe it can track down Gabriel's Grace, too? Or, the biggest clumps of it?"

"It probably wouldn't be able to track down Gabriel's Grace," Castiel broke in. "The pieces will be too small, even if, overall, they're bigger than others of his Grace. However, being able to track down fallen angels with the device does sound like a good, strategic thing to have."

Lemuel's mind churned. An angel tracking device. That could solve a lot of their problems, right? Tell them exactly where the bastards went? He smiled.

"So we can hunt them down and kill them?" He asked innocently.

Everyone looked at him. Dean was glaring, Castiel merely disapproving, while Sam and Kevin looked so shocked and appalled one would think he'd murdered a baby. Lemuel didn't like the looks they were giving him. He thought his question was completely valid. Why else would they need to go looking for angels? How dare they judge him for it.

"What?" He barked.

"We don't want to kill them," Sam replied gently.

"Why not?! They've possessed people! They're running around when they have no right to be! Why shouldn't we get rid of them?"

"Uh, because not all of them are bad guys." Dean explained.

Lemuel opened his mouth to yell back at the man. Explain how good guys wouldn't just take over a human and make them do bad things against their will. He could feel his feathers bristling on his wings. But, before he could get a word out, Sam had drawn his attention with a shushing motion of his hands that was meant to calm him. It didn't work.

"Lemuel," Sam said in that tone he used when trying to be nice. "I understand where you're coming from, I really do. But, a majority of these angels didn't come to Earth because they wanted to and they have no way to get back home. Their only option is to take a Vessel. Not all of them are making the human hosts act badly. We can't just go up to them and kill them without knowing their intentions. _That would be wrong_."

His teeth ground together. He didn't like being talked down to. He didn't like thinking that some of the angels weren't like Lucifer or Gabriel or Ezekiel. He wanted them gone. If Heaven wouldn't open for them, then there was only one other way to do that.

Lemuel heard Dean snicker.

"What'd you expect, Sam? The boy was raised by _demons_."

Lemuel knew what he was feeling as it burst free from his chest and down his arms to his fists. It was rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. And it was focused on Dean Winchester. He raised his wings high over his head, letting the feathers spread as much as he could.

How dare he? How dare this man joke about what he'd went through? He didn't know anything! Lemuel would show him. He'd show him just what the demons had taught him.

Before he could move towards the man, who was staring at him in mute horror, he felt something collide with his back. Arms wrapped around him, pulling as hard as the could downward on his wings. He tried to fight back, tried to shove off whomever it was with a few jerks of his wings. But they wouldn't let go and his wing muscles were sore from disuse. They gave, slowly, under the pressure. He roared in frustration.

"Stand down," Castiel's voice said quietly in his ear.

It was only because it was Castiel that Lemuel didn't start kicking his attacker. He seethed, though. He seethed and he hissed and he glared heatedly at the older Winchester. Dean had carefully maneuvered himself closer to Sam, as if that would save him.

"Lower your wings and stand down," Castiel whispered. "Go to your room if you have to, but find some place to calm down. I'll handle Dean. But you can't attack him. You can't hurt him. You'll be forced to leave and that won't do anyone any good. _Go._ "

He didn't want to. He really didn't. But Castiel had a point. He couldn't afford to be kicked out of the Bunker. And Dean wouldn't think twice about doing so. Reluctantly, he pulled his wings back behind his back. When Castiel seemed sure that he wouldn't rip Dean's face off first chance he got, he removed his arms from around Lemuel's shoulders.

Lemuel bolted, not even caring that his wing knocked into Castiel as he did so. He walked swiftly and angrily back to his room, his long nails digging into the palms of his hands. Once inside, he let his rage loose.

He let it loose on the lamp. He let it loose on the bed sheets and the mattress. He let it loose on the nightstand. Anything he could get his hands on and throw, he did just that. Until, eventually, all he was left with was his self to tear apart. But that would be stupid, wouldn't it? Because he was already torn to shreds; he was already broken. So, all he did was slide his hands into his hair and sink to the floor.

Castiel eventually came to check on him. Lemuel wasn't sure how much time had passed, but it was long enough for him to feel numb instead of angry. The fallen angel took a cursory look around his room and said nothing. Though a look of understanding seemed to flit across his features for a moment.

He told Lemuel that Dean wouldn't bother him again. Not about _that_. But that Lemuel should still be cautious on how he displays himself. Lemuel made a noncommittal grunt. When Castiel, cautiously, asked if he needed help with the room, Lemuel told him no. The fallen angel nodded once and left. While Lemuel thought about never leaving ever again.

* * *

It felt like an eternity since the Winchesters had come to visit him. Which was odd, considering he knew all that eternity entailed. This was definitely not eternity, but it _felt_ like it. Crowley mused that maybe bloody and painful torturing really _wasn't_ the way to go. That his eternal queue had held some weight, after all. Why did he ever let those fool demons convince him otherwise?

Oh, right, he'd been too focused on opening Purgatory and then killing Dick to really pay attention to the success or failures of the torturing going on in Hell. He'd have to do some trial runs whenever he got back to being King of Hell. Maybe start with the truly masochistic chumps and stick 'em in solitary confinement for a few centuries. Just to see how long it'd take them to lose their minds. The party-goers, too.

Those souls that were already introverts wouldn't be allowed in on the experiments, for obvious reasons. No, they'd probably be better off with the normal routine. Their souls would merely shine brighter if left alone for all eternity. Couldn't have that in Hell.

Crowley was drawn from his thoughts as Sam flung the doors to the dungeon open. The moose looked positively irate. It was a good look on him. Right beside the annoyingly endearing puppy dog eyes. Oh, but that made Crowley remember which of the brothers had slaughtered his dog. He took back that bit about the endearing thing.

He smiled pleasantly as Sam stormed towards him. Crowley was really looking forward to another one of their little games. Crowley always wound up the winner, after all. Gleaning more information from the boys than they ever received from him.

"What did you do to him?!" Sam snapped, thrusting his finger back the way he'd come.

Crowley looked from Sam's face, out the door, and then back, "To whom, Moose? There's no one there."

"To Lemuel!" Sam shouted. "He nearly ripped Dean's face off a minute ago because he brought demons. What. Did. You. Do?"

"Ah," Crowley gave an open-mouthed grin. "So you did pick up the little brat. How is he these days? Mind if I have a little look-see?"

Crowley was pretty sure the look he received in reply was called a "bitchface." He wasn't entirely sure why it'd been coined that, however. Quite crass, even for him.

"No," Sam growled. "You seriously think I'm going to drag him in here to see you? He'd tear into you with his damn _teeth_."

"Aw, Sammy. Didn't think you cared."

"Not about you, I don't. Now, answer me."

He sighed, "The same thing I do to all my friends. Well, he got the better end of the deal. Didn't fancy getting accidentally smote by him, so I didn't get too close. He did that, y'know? Ate one of my demons right up. Literally. Sort of like Famine. Hmm. _Nephilim_. Tricky little buggers."

Sam looked rightfully stunned by his confession. The lumbering giant probably didn't even know what they had in their hands. The nephilim was a very good weapon. Against demons and angels alike. Moreso against demons, of course. His divine powers would easily fry anything of demonic origin. Against angels he'd have a harder time. But, he was more immune to them than the average Joe, so. He could always be used as a distraction and be expected to come back only slightly damaged.

"There had to be more," Sam mumbled. "No one acts like that over simple torture."

Crowley laughed, "Simple? My dear, ol' Sam, I think your head's a bit fried. Too many trips through Hell. Torture is never simple and it's never fun, unless you're a masochist, that is."

The moose looked subdued by his words. Like he was an idiot for thinking what the nephilim had been through was _easy_ compared to some of the other stuff Hell was known to dish out. Sam was probably wrongly under the assumption that nephilim had the tolerance of their angelic parents. They didn't. Their human souls made them far more fragile than the robots from Upstairs.

"How long?" Sam asked, his rage melting into pity.

Crowley shrugged. He contemplated remaining silent, but, well, Sam's heart was already bleeding over the poor, innocent fledgling so… Why not make it bleed more? Really give him something to think about when he looked at the twerp.

He hummed thoughtfully, "Not sure, though I did inherit him from Lucifer. It was his demons that found him. They kept him safe until _Daddy_ could come check out the goods. He was a wee lad, back then. Very obedient, I hear. Until he figured out no one was coming to save him, of course."

Sam's brow knitted in confusion. Crowley smiled at him. It was a joy seeing him try to comprehend what his words had meant. How few years had passed since the Boy King had released Lucifer unto the world till now. But Moose was smart. He'd figure it out real soon.

"Wait, but- I- That was in '09. He's sixteen, seventeen tops. That's…" The Winchester sucked in a shaky breath, "He ages too fast. He's like-like the Amazons, or something. He-"

The rage came back. Sam whirled on him from where he'd been pacing the floor in front of the table. Crowley kept smiling at the boy.

"You tortured a _child?!_ " He shouted. "A child? Really, Crowley?"

"Demon," he purred. "Please, I've done far worse to babes. And, before you ask, no. I don't regret it. I don't have the capacity to. Perhaps if you'd actually managed to complete the Trials and turned me human, I would be a sniveling mess on the floor, shouting my sins to the sky and begging for forgiveness. But, you didn't. And here we are. Bravo, Moose."

Sam's jaw muscles worked as he glared at him. Ah, but this was too much fun. Stripping away the youngest Winchester's pride. It must really eat him up inside to know that Hell was still running, even without its King, and that all his suffering had been for nothing. Demons were still out there doing deals and having fun. Tormenting humans and the like. If only he'd been able to ignore Dean's pleas back in that church.

"So," Crowley began, "are you just going to stand there and try to smite me with your eyes, or are you going to do something? I'd quite enjoy it if you brought me the little pipsqueak. I'd like to see if you're treating him well. Doing good by him, and all that. I put a lot of time and effort into not killing him as soon as I laid eyes on him, after all. Kept the angels off of him, too."

"No. I'm not putting him through that. And you can rot in here for all I care."

"Aw, Sammy. Cut me right to the quick! Too bad I still have some demon names to give you. Can't very well do that if I'm rotting away, now can I?"

Sam squinted at him, wondering what angle he was trying to play. Of course, Sam wouldn't figure it out. Crowley was too good at manipulation and conning for him to catch on to his little plan. All he had to do was make Sam believe he wanted one thing, while, the truth of the matter was, he wanted something completely unrelated. And Sam was going to give him what he wanted because he was none the wiser.

"You're just going to give me some demon names?" Sam questioned, unconvinced. "Let me guess, as a bartering tool for seeing Lemuel. Or Kevin. Or stretching your legs. Not going to happen. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that."

He shrugged, "I think I got what I wanted. Confirmation that you and Dean procured my weapon and are watching out for it. I _would_ like to see him, yes. But, as you've stated, it doesn't appear that I'm going to be able to do that. So, I'll give you _one_ demon name. Just the one. I would have given you more but, eh. You know how it is. I'll need an extra sheet of paper and another crayon, however. Care to fetch me those? I'm a little tied up at the moment."

Sam fidgeted in place for a moment before finally relenting to his wishes. He walked swiftly from the room, not even bothering to shut the doors, as he went to get something for Crowley to write with.

Crowley merely smiled. In his suit pocket rested another sheet of paper, a particular sigil drawn on it. Not in crayon but in blood. His own blood. The devil's trap under him may prevent him from using any of his Hell-inspired tricks, but they didn't prevent the spell he planned on using from working. Too bad Sam and Dean never thought to check if he'd been hoarding anything they gave him. Well, he did try to fluster them into forgetting, so… It wasn't _entirely_ their fault for being so spastic.

When the moose returned and slammed the small sheet of paper and a black crayon on the desk for him, Crowley thanked him as sarcastically as he could manage. The Winchester, as per usual, stormed off to leave Crowley to himself. He smiled down at the paper, brought his forefinger to his teeth, and bit down hard enough to bring blood.

The boys were making this far too easy for him.

* * *

Sam felt at a loss. Which was normal for him. His life was pretty shitty sometimes. Some days he could forget about that. He could wake up, bright and early, go for a jog, and feel right as rain. Never once would the horrible things he'd done surface into his mind. Other days… Other days he had a poncy asshole remind him how much of a failure he was.

No matter how hard he tried to atone for his sins, he always seemed to scrounge up some more. It was one thing to know he'd let out Lucifer. It was another to be faced with how many lives the archangel had ruined. It was another to think that, if he'd just stayed away from Ruby, Tracy and Lemuel and others wouldn't have had to suffer.

He knew, of course, that he wasn't to blame for every bad thing that had happened because of Lucifer. That demons were just as responsible as he was. But, it still gnawed at him. It still bothered him. Guilt wasn't something a Winchester easily let go of.

He wasn't going to be able to look at the teen the same again. He couldn't. He'd understood why Lemuel had nearly jumped Dean. His brother _had_ said something completely stupid and unsympathetic. He would have said something to him, but Lemuel had beaten him to the punch. Figuratively.

Lemuel probably had wanted to punch Dean, though. Or, rip him to shreds, more like. Sam wouldn't forget the way Lemuel's wings had towered above them, outstretched towards the ceiling. He wouldn't forget the glow coming from those eyes. He was amazed Dean hadn't pissed himself. Sam almost did. He was pretty sure his heart had stopped for a second. Angels could appear scary, but it was a whole other ballpark when the wings were visible.

Sam wanted to apologize to the teen. Not just for, like, the Lucifer thing, but also Dean. Crowley. A lot of things, really. But, Lemuel didn't seem to like him much. He didn't dislike him, at least. Plus, he'd been cooped up in his room ever since the standoff.

Castiel had calmly, yet sternly, laid into Dean over his behavior. Over the triggering words he'd said and how, basically, he was a major dick. Dean, amazingly, had admitted to that. He'd apologized to Cas, said he wouldn't bother Lemuel again. Not about the demons, anyway. He made no promises if the kid started something.

After Dean had stomped off to put away what few groceries they'd picked up from the local store, Castiel had pulled Sam aside. Cas had explained to him that they had to watch Lemuel. He hadn't wanted to bring it to the Winchesters' attention, but the creatures were known for their temperaments. Something about the wrath of angels going too far.

How, in the far past, fallen angels had begotten them and the nephilim had turned to destruction. That they had to be stopped by the archangels before they wrecked civilization. Of course, he'd added in that sorta-secretive tone Cas was known for, civilization hadn't been that big of advanced back then, but the point still remained. Lemuel was already showing signs of uncontrollable anger-even if justified-and they had to be careful.

Cas had walked away then. Sam had been left with his thoughts. Thoughts of the justification for Lemuel's wrath. He'd stewed over it so much that the only thing he could think to do was yell at Crowley. Demand answers. "What did you do and why did you do it?"

Naturally, he hadn't been too fond of the answers.

Now, Sam sat at the map table, as he liked to call it, trying to ignore the guilt running rampant inside his skull so that he could focus on more important things like figuring out where the angels went or how to resurrect Gabriel. He wasn't too fond of the decision to bring back the dead archangel.

Dean hadn't been wrong when he'd called him a douche. Sam still remembered every one of Dean's deaths in Broward Country like it was yesterday. He still kinda wanted to strangle the bastard that had put him through that hell. Unfortunately, they didn't really have a choice. According to Cas, Gabriel needed to come back to take out Metatron. Hell, he may be able to take Abaddon out, too. The archangel would be useful. So, whether he liked it or not, he was going to have to research how to get the guy walking the earth again.

Cas had given them some clues on where to look for Gabriel's Grace. A Chalice and a Scythe. His Horn. Naturally, he started looking for the Horn. He remembered it from a case they had years ago. They had, incorrectly, assumed it was the cause of people spouting off anything and everything they thought. Turned out to be the goddess Veritas, not the Heavenly Weapon. And, if Cas hadn't found it since then, then it had to be still out there.

So, technically, Sam was back at square one when it came to the Horn of Truth. However, he did remember the lore of it. He also, now, had access to the Men of Letters archives. Who knew, perhaps the Horn was buried somewhere in the Bunker?

He jotted down a small list of what to look out for in his search. What the artifact was, horn, what its origin would be, angelic/heavenly, how old it was, old as dirt, etc. The Men of Letters had many different filing systems. There was alphabetical, of course, but there were also things like purpose and location it was found. All of it weaved together nicely, but it took some learning to get used to it.

Finally done with his little note, he ripped the paper from its pad and stood from his chair. When he turned around, he stopped short to notice Lemuel sort of peaking at him from around the corner as he stood in the library. He thought about speaking to him. He thought about moving, too. But Lemuel's eyes were narrowed at him and he didn't know what to do. It felt a bit like running into a wild animal and desperately trying not to startle it into attacking or fleeing.

Dean interrupted their little staring contest as he came through the library. Lemuel's immediate reaction was to scowl. Sam noticed how his wings started to rise and puff up. He prayed Dean wouldn't say anything to set the teen off again. Anything at all. Just keep walking.

Well, he kept walking…

"You need a shirt," his brother stated offhandedly.

Sam took a deep breath. He knew what his brother was doing. He was trying to joke his way out of an awkward situation and apology. Dean did it all the time with him and with Cas. But Lemuel wasn't them. Lemuel was a landmine. Dean was dancing way too close.

Much to Sam's surprise, the nephilim didn't smite his brother. In fact, his glower quickly morphed into a disinterested mask. Which…probably meant nothing good, either. Lemuel stepped out from behind the wall, putting all of his weight on one leg while he folded his arms.

"Why, Dean?" Lemuel asked innocently. "Do my nipples scare you?"

Sam somehow managed to _not_ snort as his brother spun around to face the teen. He'd seen Dean's bewildered face just before he'd turned away from him. That had been priceless. Before Dean could ask just what the hell Lemuel was talking about, Lemuel continued.

"Are they staring at you? Do they make you _uncomfortable_?"

"Alright, look, smart ass."

Sam cleared his throat loudly. Best to diffuse the situation before it got any worse. Dean refused to tear his harsh stare away from Lemuel, however. And Lemuel? He didn't seem to care.

"Uh," he started cautiously. "I think what Dean's getting at, Lemuel, is that it's not really… Warm? In the Bunker. That, with you still mending, uh, it'd be- It'd probably be good for you to have something to put on your chest so you don't…get a cold?"

Lemuel's eyes darted from him to Dean and back again. He didn't looked convinced or any less offended.

"Uh-huh."

Dean nodded back at him, "Yeah, what he said."

He was pretty sure Lemuel didn't buy a word of what he'd said. Probably because, if the nephilim was anything like angels, he couldn't get sick. But, the teen merely turned and walked away, further into the Bunker to do who knew what. Dean groaned as he faced him again.

"I'm telling you. That kid…"

"Well, you did kinda start that one, Dean. Again."

"I was just sayin'. He can't run around half-naked all the time. And his pants are held on by a wing and a prayer! He needs clothes."

Sam nodded slowly, "Did you mean to make that pun?"

"Sam!"

"Right. So, get this."

He raised the small piece of paper that had his notes and then handed it to Dean.

"Cas gave us a lead on the Gabriel Grace stuff and, since he doesn't think the computer will track it down, I've started trying to find the stuff myself. Now, we already know of the Horn of Truth."

"Because of the Veritas case?"

"Right. Well, since the Horn wasn't the one stolen from that antique shop, or whatever, and Cas never found it, that means it's still out there."

"…yeah. We kinda established that earlier. What are you getting at?"

"I'm thinking the Men of Letters might have something about it in their archives. So, I wrote down a list of stuff to know for finding it. Because their-their filing system is wonky. Thorough but wonky."

Dean nodded, staring at the piece of paper in his hand.

"Hmph. Not a bad idea, Sam." His brother slapped him on the shoulder once, "I'll get right on that."

As Dean turned to leave he asked, "Wait, why you? I was gonna-"

"Because _you_ are going to go shopping," was the reply as Dean looked at him over his shoulder. "I told you. That boy needs some clothes and, if I'm in charge of that, let's face it, I'll pick something completely stupid for him to wear out of spite. So, I'll look for the dick's musical instrument and you can go fetch something for Lemuel to wear."

Sam's mouth worked before he replied, "But I don't know what size he wears."

His brother shrugged, "He and Kevin are close to the same size, just take him with you. You know where the keys are."

And with those words, Dean left to go do the job Sam had set his mind to. Wasn't the first time Dean had opted out of doing something he didn't want to by thrusting it on him. Probably wouldn't be the last, either. Oh well. Guess he had to go inform Kevin he was going to be needed. At least this time it wasn't for his prophetic ability though, right?


End file.
